Kenway - Requiem
by A Penguin Named Jack
Summary: After Black Flag and AC3, what becomes of the Kenway bloodline? From the twilight years of Connor's life as Assassin Mentor to the bullet-riddled journey of his grandson Jonathan, this is the requiem to their saga.
1. Sequence 1: Prologue

**This is the spiritual successor to APNJ writer Hilden B. Lade's first AC fanfiction, Connor - Requiem although it does not share the same continuity as that tale. It was done at the request of a panda-obsessed tit-judging pothead (you know who you are) at the Ubisoft forums who requested that Hilden write more stuff like CR instead of the superior King Desmond or Minstrel's Revenge. **

**The story-telling may be non-chronological and the characters ruthlessly unlikable. Just a warning. ****  
**

* * *

San Francisco, California. It had started as life as one of the missions, Spanish settlements seeking to convert the Natives to Christianity. Many of these missions had become gears in a larger Templar clockwork scheme, but Mission San Francisco de Asis had not been one of them. The town had thrived underneath three flags: the Spanish Empire from its unwavering conquest till its dying throes, Mexico where the missions fell and the settlers from the East began to arrive, and finally the stars and stripes of the American Republic after the war with Mexico. With the arrival of America came Assassins from the East as well. Once upon a time, their order had been decimated to old men left disillusioned and bitter by their defeat by the machinations of Haytham Kenway. But like a phoenix, they had risen from the ashes. Rebuilt in the North by the half-breed named Connor and in the South by the woman named Aveline. Like the Union Pacific Railroad, these were two train tracks being built that eventually converged into one.

The Assassins that came to California were led by a man named John C. Fremont, who had been a military officer and explorer in his other life. An ambitious yet flawed man, The Great Pathfinder helped secure Californian independence and played the great game of politics. He was one of the first of his Brotherhood to infiltrate the American Congress, and he very well may have become the President had it not been for the nation's fear that his abolition beliefs would lead to war.

Like San Francisco itself, the Pacific Assassins started out small. They found few settlers or soldiers fit to envelop in their cause. If the Templar influence in the Pacific region hadn't eroded by their arrival, they very well would've easily been destroyed in one fell swoop. But then gold was found, and with the gold came many potential recruits to strengthen their organization. To further accentuate their luck, amongst the settlers who came were two members of the ailing Chinese Brotherhood who sought to make contact with any of their fellow Assassins in the West. Their names were Wei Ying and Li Long.

Wei Ying returned to his homeland when the gold dried up, where it had been weakened by two catastrophic Opium Wars and was currently overtaken by the Taiping Rebellion, where he would soon join Vali cel Tradat and Al Mualim in the ranks of the most infamous, most despised traitors to the Assassins.

Li Long stayed in America, where he spent the rest of his life relegated to the Chinatown area of San Francisco. There he established a haven, a base of operations, for the gold-seeking Orientals who had been inducted into the Brotherhood. They frequently communicated with the main base of the Pacific Assassins, established in San Francisco's vice-riddled red-light district known as the Barbary Coast, but collaboration between the two was infrequent. There was only so much the Chinese could do in a society dominated by exceptionalism and racism.

Like the Pacific Assassins who boldly spread their wings in flight towards the lakes of Oregon and the mountains of Washington, San Francisco itself grew from a miserable mission to an insignificant settler's town to one of the largest cities in America. It was a city that one could easily find themselves lost in, a welcoming new world with its own cultural identity birthed from those who had built and came, like the metropolises back east. The Pacific Assassins, although they had been sent by the American Brotherhood back east, formed their own identity and they carried out their own business.

The year was now 1890.

* * *

The two men met in a private room on the upper floor of a building in Chinatown. One was one of the Chinese settlers, the other one of the white men. The front of the building was a medicine and herb shop, it doubled as an opium den when ordnances had driven the public dens underground. A petite serving girl wearing a lily-embroidered pink dress poured tea into a cup for the stranger, who was dressed somewhat fancily in a black suit with a white vest and black tie underneath. He leaned back and removed his hat, wide-brimmed and expectedly black, setting it aside. He revealed a hair of dark brown hair, now fraying gray. There was weariness to his face, roughly shaven. He normally drank whisky from a flask, but for his host, he drank the tea. Never was too caring of the drink, like his mother. His uncle adored the stuff, like the English. He and his mother had been close, neither of them had been fond of his uncle. He felt like smoking, but there was already a nauseating scent of opium in the hazy interior.

"Am I everything you expected?" The man asked his host. His host, the Chinaman, had grown slightly pudgy and his jet-black hair of his youth had become gray. His hair, still tied in a queue, was rapidly balding. He was becoming a far cry from his days as a youthful Assassin, when he had first arrived in America with his comrade Wei Ying. His name was Li Long.

"I expected the 'Hanged Man' to look much rougher, more cuts and scars, perhaps even a full beard. But the toils of age happen, to even the best of us." He spoke English fluently, albeit with a Cantonese accent.

"The Hanged Man. Been a while since I've heard that name. Truth be told, I've lost track. Just how many nicknames they gave me. Hanged Man, the Devil, the Angel of Vengeance, Death on a Horse, they all blurred into one. They never mattered to me, although the reputation that they formed helped at times. I was always Jonathan, son of Helena and Daniel."

"Still, I find it quite an honor to meet one who has done so much for and against the Brotherhood in the east of this land. And I was quite hoping to meet the man behind the legend…"

"Is that so?"

"Yes… a man who has walked both paths. Assassin, Templar, and yet he chose to remain an independent force. Why is that so? What you've done… could've been greater had you picked a side. Yet you act like a solitary bear, reluctant to from allegiances with anyone. Even with my end approaching, I wish to learn just a little bit more about our curious species – mankind."

"You're asking for me to tell you things that I've told no one. Do you wish for me to burden you with my memories, my struggles, the feelings and thoughts that break me into a thousand little pieces on the inside? Sorry, Mr. Li, but these are cards that I play close to the vest." He finished his tea, retrieved his hat and put it back on. He left his chair, pushing it back in place.

"My apologies if I disappointed you, Li Long."

"I understand, but if you do change your mind, I'll be waiting here until the day I die. But before you depart, at least tell me one thing. Why did you do what you did? Walk in the path of justice as you did, albeit the questionable way that you did. I know enough about your past, what do you did in Texas. Crimes driven by blind rage and desire for vengeance. So why did you change, Jonathan? Was it guilt? A desire for glory? Revenge against the Assassin who killed your mother? What was it, that turned you from the lost boy into the legend you became?"

"I made a promise to my mother. One that I ashamedly always had trouble keeping."

And Jonathan exited the den. Pausing outside the doorway, he lit himself a smoke. The weather outside was unforgiving and rainy. He could hear thunder in the distance. What a pity. Perhaps he should've heeded the old Chinaman's request and told him his life story. But he wasn't going back in the den, not in the immediate moment, and he wasn't going to stick around here to catch pneumonia. He decided to retire to his hotel room, where he had pens and paper. Upon his return, at his bedside by candle-light, he would begin to write.

He remembered a rainy day, just like this one. But it had been a little less than two decades ago, in a nameless town in the Midwest lands which had long faded away like the silver and gold. His story hadn't really started with him, but rather the Assassin who had been his grandfather. He had never met the man, he had died before Jonathan was born but Helena had assured her son of the man's greatness, the tragic yet inspiring path he walked. He would write all of their stories in time, and perhaps one day someone would wander over these pages and ponder over what thoughts lay within. Or perhaps he would just burn the damn thing when it was over.

* * *

Jonathan lay crouched on top of the roof of the saloon, gazing down at the posse who were riding into town. The rain descended in a full crescendo, a symphony of pitter-patters. Drops hit and rolled off his hat, hitting the rim of his boots. His eyes blinked, his face expressionless as he witnessed about twenty-men or so wielding torches depart from their horses. For a minute, he thought a hopeful idea that perhaps a robber or a cow tipper was laying low in town, that this was a lynch mob after that unfortunate soul. But then he looked closer, and he saw the pendant hanging around one of the men's necks. It was a red cross. He had remembered encountering a man with a cross just like that on the train to Denver. He had rejected the man's preposition, he had been warned that he committed a great folly that he would regret.

The men barged into the buildings around town. Pouring into the saloon, smashing down the door to the general store, barging into the barn. He could see them harassing the populace, demanding to know if they had seen him. One burly man held the town doctor by the arms, while his smaller compatriot slit the man's nostril with a knife. He should intervene, he thought, but the Templars were scattered through the buildings. They had multiple vantage points. He had to wait for them all to gather in the center of town again, where they could all be ambushed at once.

"How many of you do we have to shoot before you give up this son of a bitch?"

"We don't know what in God's name you are talking about!" The doctor protested as the tiny man hit him in the ribs, likely breaking them into fine little fragments.

The leader, a mustachioed-man with a magnified presence, lanky and dressed in black demanded for a weapon. One of his men threw a shotgun to him. Without hesitation, he pointed the sights towards the nearest prostitute and blew her head clean off. As red mist settled around her crumpled body, the leader began to scan the huddling civilians once more. His men were fiddling out of the buildings, some of them throwing their torches into the interiors.

"We done here, boss? Me and the boys haven't found any sign of this vigilante in any of the buildings."

"Do you forget? He was trained by one of _them. _Bastards always were skilled at hiding right under your noses. Raze the town, we draw him out or burn him trying."

"The Mentor won't like that. He specifically requested that we bring him in battered, but alive."

"And do you remember what happened to our Colonial Order, when Haytham Kenway let his half-breed bastard walk instead of slitting his throat like a smart man would? We are eliminating a liability to our Order if he falls here."

Time to act.

The Templar Leader heard the sound of blades being unsheathed from hidden bracers. He looked up just in time for his mouth to open up for a scream. His men wheeled around in shock, seeing the form from above cut down their leader and his right hand man. They squinted their eyes through the rain, seeing the man in front of them.

He wore a beaked, wide-rimmed hat with a feather attached. He wore a dark duster coat, trapped in a shade between chocolate brown and night black. Strapped across his shoulder and belt were bandoleers with ammunition attached, a dark gray vest underneath his coat. Around his neck was a small red scarf. His pants were long, matching the color of his vest. Protruding from his sleeves were two blades, dripping with fresh blood.

"Gentlemen… sorry to pop in unannounced."

The men were screaming now, readying their guns but Jonathan drew quicker. Unholstering his revolvers, he fired off six shots killing twelve of the Templars instantly as he weaved in and out of a hail of bullet fire. One shot to the head each. Their bodies fell as their comrades reloaded their shells and readied their aims. No time to reload for the artifact he carried with him might not reflect it all. Jonathan kicked the Templar nearest to him, unbalancing the man. He hoisted the Templar in front of him, letting him absorb the bullets. He tossed the bullet-riddled body to the side, and leapt at the nearest batch of Templars. One of them wailed as his hidden blade punctured his throat, reducing the wail to a regurgitated bloody babble.

Fourteen down, six to go.

The burly man swung at him with the butt of his rifle, Jonathan barely rolling out of the way in time to avoid the blow. With his hidden blades, he repeatedly punctured the man's exposed chest, scarlet blood blossoming like falling petals from the holes he made in the giant. Pushing the dead weight to the wide, he reached into his overcoat to pullout the tomahawk shaped like the insignia of his mother's people. It had belonged to his grandfather, she told him. He remembered that Helena had told him many things about his grandfather, all of them positive. The cruel words, the disdain, were all reserved for his Uncle. Matthew, he remembered with a fury building up in him. He swung it into the tiny man, cutting deep into the stout man's neck until his head flopped like a dying fish.

One of his hidden blades slid from their bracers, into his palm as a small knife. The remaining three Templars dropped their weapons in surrender as he cut down a brave fool attempting to rush him. One of them scrambled to his feet, running like the devil was after him towards the horses as he executed two of the beggars. Jonathan considered letting him go, he seemed barely old enough to be past the age of a boy. Run home to his Mentor, tell him what happened and the mercilessness which it happened so they, like the secret brotherhood his mother had served, would leave him alone.

Then he reconsidered. Let the bastards find out for themselves. He reloaded one of his revolvers, and shot the boy's horse from under him. The boy cried as the horse collapsed, pinning him to the wet, muddy ground. He sputtered and begged for his life.

"Please, sir! Don't do it! I was just a scout, doing it for some cash to support my mama! I'm an innocent, not one of them." Tears flowed from his eyes, snot ran from his nose. His lips quivered to complete the pathetic image.

"You should've gotten a job then, boy. Instead of running with men of this caliber." He spun the tomahawk in the air.

"You can't kill me! I'm innocent! Your Creed says so!" The boy protested, crying harder and his words growing more incoherent.

"Perhaps so. But your boss should've strayed his bullets and blades from the flesh of these townsfolk. What's another bit of blood spilled in retribution going to make?"

"You can't break your Creed!" The boy screamed, still trying to save his life.

"You forgot the most important fact of all. Just because I wear this hat, carry these blades, carry this axe, doesn't make me an Assassin."

The boy closed his eyes as Jonathan lifted the tomahawk. But his anxiousness turned to warmth, wet relief as Jonathan put his blade away. He pushed the horse off the boy, beckoning the doctor to come examine the kid.

"T-t-thank you..." He stammered.

"It's not me you should be thanking."

He bent over the boy. He showed him the cross. "Ride with this symbol again..." And then he showed drew the symbol of the Assassins in the dirt. "...or this one, and I will return for you. No mercy in my intents."

Leaving the boy behind he walked away, thinking about Helena and what he had promised to her over the grave at New York.

The bewildered townsfolk clustered in the rain, looking at the dead bodies of their neighbors and the posse who had ridden into town. Bodies pierced with bullet marks, bodies punctured as blood made neat puddles muddled by the rain beneath them. One of the deputies raised his rifle at the man in the duster walking away. The bastard was some sort of goddamned crazy dangerous he had never seen before. Killing twenty men all by himself. Son of a bitch was dangerous. He had to die, for what would he do to them if the mood turned.

But his sheriff pushed the rifle away. He had seen a bullet fly towards the man during the firefight, only to be reflected by some outer factor. If it weren't God, it was very well the work of the Devil himself. And he didn't want to incur any supernatural religious goddamn wrath on his town.

Jonathan whistled for his horse, a beautiful pale white mane, and rode into the night. To the townsfolk, he seemed to disappear into the raining horizon like an emissary of the Lord.

Or perhaps a devil having acquired what dues he came to collect.


	2. Sequence 1: Compromise

Jonathan looked down at his paper, the first of the notes he had scribbled down. It was an ambitious feat he was performing. No one had ever bothered to document the history of the family before. He wondered how much of the final product would be the stone cold facts and how much of it would be his personal thoughts and memoir. He wondered if he deserved to do it, as well. Connor would never have approved of him – he had been a murderer, a rapist, a robber, he'd done it all in the early days and even after his partial reform, even after he finally brought himself to forgive the Assassins, he was hardly better. He was a merciful rogue at best, a sadistic devil at worst. He still wondered what his mother would've thought of his path in life and what things would've been like had Matthew… had Matthew not… he choked down the thought. _Damn it… you were always right about it, mother. The hardest part is letting go. _

_My family was first drawn into the war between the Assassins and Templars during the Golden Age of Piracy, where my great-great grandfather Edward sailed with a rogue crew and brushed hairs with some of the most nefarious names of his era. Blackbeard, Calico Jack, Black Bart, the reputable pirates of overblown lore and the authorities like Woodes Rogers who hunted them. I do not know much of those days, for I was born past a century after the heyday of the pirates and Edward Kenway. My grandfather was the last to know of Edward Kenway's exploits in my immediate bloodline – he never bothered to share the ravishing details of the pirate Assassin's adventures to my mother nor her half-brother. My uncle Matthew, whom I will be discussing in these pages in a hopefully unbiased reminisce of what I knew of the man. In spite of what the son of a bitch did to her. To father and I. Grandfather merely told my mother that he would treat her better than Edward did to his daughter. It seems to be the inverse of the relationship Edward had with his son, the notorious Haytham. The son scorned and the daughter praised._

_What I know of Edward comes from the catalyst that his death served. The hole that his death provided which allowed the British Templar Reginald Birch to swoop in and take the young Haytham under his tutelage. His name to the Assassin children is like the boogeyman, a ghost story used by parents to frighten them into subservience. There have been many grand masters since Haytham in the States leading the Templar Order, but none of them have ever accomplished what he did. Reducing the entirety of the Brotherhood into remnants, wasted excuses for old men like Achilles or Agate. Pathetic men who languished in defeat, letting the young generation that rose up to rectify their falls. _

_But every king's reign must end, and Haytham's came at the hands of his own son. Connor, my grandfather. Hard to believe that the two actually tried to work together, forming an allegiance to track down a man named Benjamin Church. Connors hoped that it could be turned into something permanent, that they could put aside the ancient war and accomplish great things together. But old wounds are always the hardest to seal, and Connor learned that the hardest way. But that wasn't the end of the naïve dream. My mother inherited his desire to see amends made and a permanent peace forged. A dream that sent her to the gallows. But that is a story for later in these recollections. _

_We discuss now what could be described as the Golden Age for our family, where Connor rebuilt the Brotherhood his father destroyed and watched the nation he had helped built mature under flawed but righteous men. _

While he wrote, Jonathan occasionally sketched. He was a decent artist, a talent that he was never able to put to practical use in his life with a lifestyle defined by firearms, gambling, fast love and drinks, and midnight rides. He made rough etchings of his bloodline and the people and places that had been. He drew Connor as he thought he had looked that day, wounded and weary, pulling the tomahawk out of the post at last….

* * *

_Mother… father… I am sorry. I have failed you both. _

Connor took down the last of the portraits, his father's. He lay them in a pile on the table in front of him, next to the mementos he had taken from the Templars he had killed. Hoisting the paintings into his arms, he turned and walked towards the staircase that led into the bottom floor of the manor. As he planted his foot on the first step, he turned to gaze back at the basement where he had first put on the hood and robes. His eyes lingered on the bare dummy and the rack behind it. On there he kept the robes of his mentor. He didn't know if after this, he would ever return to the basement. He slowly limped, continuing up the staircase, heading towards the office of the manor. There he stopped in front of the fireplace and moved the coals with the poker as he hoisted the paintings into the flames.

_I made a promise to protect our people. I thought… I thought if I could stop the Templars, keep the Revolution free from their influence, that those I supported would do what was right. _

Connor stood and gazed as the flames illuminated his face. He thought back for a moment, and he walked away as he let the flames consume the last of what remained of the Colonial Templars. He staggered outside the manor, limping as he made his way toward the pillar. Each step sapped at his strength. He gritted his teeth as his nerves screamed at him. Would the wounds he received from the battle with his father and the chase after Lee never heal? Would he be like this, forever? A cripple like his mentor, left to wither away in bitterness and disillusion until another naïve child seeking guidance to save the world came along? Heaving, he grasped the handle of the tomahawk. As he did, he turned his head and looked back at the doorstep of the manor. How long ago had it been? The day his childhood friend first showed up on the doorstep, Connor anxiously demanding if something had happened to their villiage. The rage that dwelled within as he learned of what Johnson was doing, stealing the land of his people. The old man had warned him of their power, the Templar's, but he had only stubbornly demanded from Achilles what to do. He only saw the immediate solution to the predicament, protecting his people. He had embedded the tomahawk in the post that day, having gone to war with the Templars. He never saw what would happen after he killed the man, that his war was far from over the day he assassinated Johnson from the rooftop.

And what good had become of supporting the Americans and their Revolution? He thought that George Washington and the others would protect his people, preserve their lands from sale and theft. But his naivety was to be shattered like a rock thrown against a window of glass. He learned that his vengeance had been misdirected, that the Templars had never been the ones who razed the village in his childhood, the fire that claimed his mother's life in front of his eyes. That had been the ones he supported, the ones whose war he won. George Washington. He had thought the man to be a courageous, selfless, larger than life hero. But through his father, he saw the man for what he was. Good intentions perhaps, but an inability to find the confidence in himself to carry them through. He won the Colonists their freedom, but what sort of freedom was it? His people displaced from their lands, and when he had gone to New York, he had seen…

_They did, I suppose do what was right. What was right for them. _

Connor thought of Haytham, the father who had been his enemy. He had tried to have Connor killed multiple times… and yet the two had worked together briefly. Connor had hoped then that it could be made into something permanent… but then the night where Haytham showed Connor the true face of the Revolution had happened. Even after that, when the two had split ties, Connor had hoped that reconciliation could be made. But his father had been stubborn to the end, protective of his mongrel Lee. The two were destined to be enemies, and one of them would die.

_As for you father, I thought I might unite us. That we would forget the past and forge a better future. In time, I thought that you could be made to see the world as I did. To understand… but it was just a dream. This too, I should've know. Were we not meant to live in peace then? Is that it? Are we born to argue to fight? So many voices, each demanding something else. _

It was true, he had won a nation its freedom. But life was not a fairy tail, and there would be no happy endings. Their freedom at the cost of another's, and it was only a freedom that applied to the highest of the social circle. What had he won, at the cost of all he had lost? Achilles was dead, his mentor perished in the time where Connor needed him the most. He had slain Haytham, ending all his hopes of peace, of union with his father's Order. He had killed Lee, but there was no solace to be found in his vengeance. Nothing but emptiness. He felt worthless, like a speck of dust. Manipulated into events beyond his control.

He had wanted to kill Washington more than ever after that day. But that would've been what his father wanted, what the man had hoped to manipulated him into doing. To compromise the Revolution, to put Lee in power. He had set aside his lust for revenge, for the sake of the colonist's freedom. He hadn't know then, that it was not only vengeance he was sacrificing for the colonists. And even after Washington had won his war, the man refused to heed the responsibility of guiding the people he had fought for. The man had wanted to retire to the safety of obscurity and do-nothing at his manor, wasting away as he played bocce or scribbled in his journal. He didn't deserve it, to step down after all he had done.

And what would killing Washington accomplish? It wouldn't bring back his mother or his people, it wouldn't undo the Revolution or all he had done… it would've just sated a lust for retribution that had already taken so much from him.

_It has been hard at times, but never harder than today. To see all I worked for perverted, discarded, forgotten._

He wanted to give up, to hang down his robes and blades. If he continued with this path, it would only lead to more misery. More loss. Those he cared about torched by flames and blades and set aside like ragdolls. But then he remembered what he had said to Charles, as he lay wounded in the shipyard. He had been trapped beneath rubble and panels of wood. He had been impaled, trapped at Lee's mercy. His foe taunted him, demanding to know why he carried on, when everything he had fought for was corrupted and he had lost everything he cared about. When those he supported had turned their backs on him. Why did he do it? Because no else will.

His thoughts turned to the spirit woman, the one he had seen when he laid his fingers upon the crystal ball. She had assured him, offering him comfort and solace, that despite his losses he had made a difference. And that one day, he would do it again. What difference could he make, sitting down and waiting for his day of reckoning to come to him?

_You would say I have described the whole of history, father. Are you smiling then, hoping I might speak the words you long to hear? To validate you? To say all along you were right? I will not._

_Even now, faced as I am with the truth of your cold word, I refuse. I believe things can still change. I may never succeed, the Assassins may struggle for another thousand years in vain, but we will not stop. Compromise. That is what everyone has insisted upon. And so I have learned. But differently than most I think._

_I realize now that it will take time, that the road ahead is long and shrouded in darkness. It is a road that will not always take me where I wish to go, and I doubt I will live to see its end. But I will travel down it nonetheless. For at my side walks hope, in the face of all that insists I turn back, I carry on._

_This, this is my compromise._

Connor, with one final wrench of strength, tore the tomahawk from the pillar where it had stood all these years. He tossed it aside. This war was over, and the tomahawk would be cast away until it was needed again. But now it was time to rebuild, to undo what his father and the Templars accomplish.

_Full of hope for the future, I returned to my people, the Assassins. It was time for new blood. _


	3. Sequence 1: The First Son

**I hate writing crap that deals primarily with romance. As such, it took me a while to actually finish this chapter due to its subject matter, and I don't like how the final product is. And yes, this actually is multiple planned chapters dealing with the development and climax of said relationship condensed and crammed into one. Like I said, I hate writing romance.**

* * *

In the office of the manor, Connor stood with his arms crossed behind his back as he looked up at the deer's head above the fireplace. On the desk cluttered were bottles of ink and various papers – reports from the recruits he had sent across the states. It had been some turbulent years for nation – economically and politically. Had it not been too long ago, that the man named Daniel Shay led the impoverished rebels against the state governments and the Congress had been near powerless to do anything about it? He had heard of their new Constitution being passed around the states right now – was it not the one that restricted the freedom of state governments in favor of strengthening the power of the few in control? George Washington and the rest of the elite, it appeared, were using the new Constitution as a means of securing their own future at the cost of the rest of society. It was a distressing sign, he felt. He did what he could to influence events from behind the scenes to what he considered best for the nation, but even for the Assassins there were limits. He was an older man now, no longer the reckless boy who had kicked down Hickey's door or pushed his father out of a burning building.

"Mentor… I come with news." One of the recently promoted, a man named Sallow.

"What is it?" Connor turned to face his visitor.

"They've unanimously elected Washington to lead this nation as their president. He'll be inaugurated by the end of April. This is a momentous occasion, don't you think? After all, he led our people to independence from the Crown? You were his ally during the war and saw it all, didn't yo-"

"You did not see the Washington I did. The man behind the reputation. I could not bear myself to directly work for his goals, after what my father revealed of his character at Valley Forge. We parted ways after West Point. I haven't seen him since that night in the forest, where he personally rode to seek my guidance. He had been carrying one of the artifacts from the Precursors… had he not been, I doubt I would have been willing as much to lend my aid in his predicament. And what I saw from the Apple, of both myself and Washington…"

"Your father, sir? But he was the enemy. He and his fellow filth sought to manipulate the world, to strip it of its free will."

"Sometimes, Sallow, the most noble, well-intentioned men in my life were my enemies. There were rogues who had to die in the Templars such as Church and Lee perhaps, but there were just as many well-meaning men who went about accomplishing their noble goals the wrong way. My father, Johnson, and Pitcairn. And of what of you, Sallow? We fight to protect and promote freedom so that humanity may evolve, but yet you keep slaves on the farm where we found you. Perhaps that is something you ought to amend before you deride others for withholding freedom." At this, Sallow turned red, a hue of embarrassment clouded his thoughts.

"What will you do about Washington, then?"

"Nothing. He is by far too much of a legend amongst the common people. His death would be catastrophic to the nation and they have already encountered many troubles that a strong leader has to help them pull through these past years. Washington, even by my admittance, has an aura of self-restraint and decency even if he by far is too insecure and confused to make the best of those qualities. I wanted people posted within Philadelphia or New York, wherever he chooses to make his Capitol, keeping a close eye on the man. If the time becomes necessary, we will act with blades. But for the good of the people, I hope what I dread will not come to pass."

* * *

Connor readied his bow as he neared his prey. As the string tightened between his fingers, he released the arrow letting it soar through the air in a life-claiming arc. The buck had barely a moment to react as the tip of the projectile thudded into its neck. It bellowed and sped into the woods, droplets of blood forming a crimson trail behind it. Connor sighed. Never was a clean kill, was it? No worries… the buck would give out eventually with its wounds. It was merely a matter of a leisurely stroll through the woods following the red trail and a hope that no bears or wolves would claim his quarry for themselves. He was about to follow the heels of his prey before he heard the voice, the English accent of the lady he had met in New York.

"'ello, Connor. No such luck with the animals today, I suppose?"

"It is not bad luck as much as it is an amateur mistake regarding the draw time." Connor addressed his former recruit, the only female of the original six. "Deborah… what brings you this far from Philadelphia?"

Following the Revolution and the period of rebirth, Connor had sent each of his recruits to a different state to preside over matters there, to maintain a network of contact and influence throughout the nation. Clipper had returned to Virginia, Little had moved to Rhode Island, Champeau stayed in Boston where he had been found, Zenger had headed down to Georgia, Colley had stayed in New York, and Deborah had been assigned to Pennsylvania. He maintained contact with them through letters, keeping up to date with their affairs and keeping them up to date with his.

"There's only so much that can be learned from a letter, Connor. There was something personal I thought to talk to you about, nothing the others know about."

"Perhaps after I acquire my bounty."

She smiled as the two of them walked side by side through the woods, passing along the stretching corridors of tall trees. They reached the corpse of the buck, a gruesome crack in the bliss of the afternoon stroll. Connor crouched in front of the dead buck, pivoting his knife into his hands.

"Nia:wen."

And he proceeded to skin the buck.

* * *

He had never tasted a better strip of fire-cooked deer meat before this day, Connor decided. It was odd, seeing how this buck differed not in a single aspect from any of the other deer he had hunted in his thirty-odd or so years of life. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of the dining room. Brightly lit in its entirety for the first time in years, as Connor never saw the need for anything more than just a meager candle for he hosted guests seldom. This was the first time in so long that he had dined with a guest. Before today, he had eaten in solitude with the occasional servant popping in ever since the day he had buried Achilles.

"So Deborah, how goes the situation in Philadelphia? I hear that the government has scrapped their old Articles completely, replaced it with a new draft being passed around right now. Perhaps I am being too paranoid, too pre-cautious, but I am worried by the notion of it. Ever since Daniel Shays' rebellion in Massachusetts, I have seen in the actions and plans of the wealthy. They're all scared of the common people, the ones whose freedom they fought for. Washington, Franklin, even my former ally Samuel Adams have denounced the rebels who rose up for many the same reasons that their Revolution was staged. The hypocrisy, the double standards, it is a worrying thought that this Constitution will reduce everything we fought for into the easily corruptible palms of a small ruling elite."

"I admit, I didn't pay too much attention to their drafting of this Constitution. Old men locking themselves in a convention hall to argue over how to govern their nation? There were more exciting contracts and leads for my Assassins to focus on. Besides, the anti-Federalists have been vocal enough for a compromise to be considered. There's a man named James Madison, he's drafting some amendments to their original vision, to ensure the bells of freedom will continue to ring."

"That is slightly relieving. But I have known some of these men too well to place my complete trust in them." The two discussed the new Constitution that was being passed around the states for ratification for a few more minutes. Nothing much changed of their opinions of the piece. Connor remained skeptical of its intents and its future consequences, while Deborah remained affixed that it was ultimately for the best and that people like Shays were accomplishing what they wanted the wrong way. He saw that she was disinterested in the conversation, that she was focused on something else, waiting for him to say the right words. So he changed the topic.

"Have you spoken to any of the others?"

"I visited Stephane first. But I fear that he's gone completely mad, the old cook. When I visited the Boston headquarters, the man was raving about like a lunatic in solitary confinement. The only thing he wished to talk anyone about was France. Down with King Louis, global liberation, so many things that he shouted to anyone within an arms reach of him. He kept swearing that he would carry our courageous American Assassin ideals to our brothers and sisters in France, to help his mother country win its freedom. Frankly, I am glad that I kept my visit brief."

"I see. Looking back upon that day, my actions in recruiting him were regrettable. Partially due to my inexperience as an Assassin, partially due to the man's flaws in character. Perhaps, if I had been wiser or more forceful, I could have done things differently. And the Redcoats whom he slaughtered in his blind rage wouldn't have died for nothing. But there is little use in dwelling on the mistakes of the past now. It blinds us to the point where it becomes our present and we can't look towards the future. Tell me, Deborah. Why did you come here? Surely it could not have been just for the sake of reminiscing."

"Do you remember that day in New York, Connor? Where we talked about the future, what you planned to do when it was all over?"

"I remember it well, down to last detail. The foul aroma of the patrons and their drink, the squabbling over the board games, the nasally groan of the barkeep. And I remember what I told you, about giving you the first chance. But my work is far from done, Deborah. A family… it would only…" He found himself at a loss of words, unable to bring himself to tell the woman of what he thought a family would do to his responsibilities as an Assassin.

"Rule under the British has become a fleeting memory, the Templars vanquished with the slaying of Lee, our once destitute Brotherhood has become a shining city upon a hill, and yet you claim that you still have work to do.. You've done more for us than anything that could ever be expected of one man. Connor, you don't owe us or the Americans anymore."

"No…. not everything. Not yet. I have yet to give everything I can to the people and to my brothers in arms. Until that day, it will not be over, Deborah."

"Then swear to me, Connor. When will it be over for you? When we have grown old and useless, unable to form a family for we have become unable to bear our next of kin? When we can only bitterly sit back and think of what might've been?"

"Deborah… I do not mean to hurt you with my candor. I wish to be able to settle down, to raise a family. But to raise a child at this moment, it is something that I do not believe I am ready for yet when the Assassins are at their most crucial moment in time. I made a promise once, to protect my people and I compromised my responsibility to them… what if it happens again?"

"It won't."

"How can you be certain of that, Deborah?"

"Our brothers and I shall be at your side, shan't we?"

* * *

_Deborah Carter did not win over Connor with her words that very night, but she prolonged her visit at the Homestead. She did not worry of Philadelphia, for she had left it in capable hands while she was gone and she was fixated on her former mentor withholding his end of a promise. She dined with him every night she was present at the Homestead, barely interacting with its residents and the other Assassins present. She insisted on accompanying him with his daily walk to the grave of Achilles. The witch never left my grandfather alone until he finally agreed to compromise once more and see where the future would take them. _

_And in that future, my uncle was regrettably born._

Another ear-splitting scream from within the bedroom. Connor nervously stood outside, next to the shut door. Doctor White and his assistant were helping Deborah deliver the baby. He had been dreading this day since the night he had lain with Deborah beneath the star-lit sky in the woods. That night, where he had at last slept naked with a woman, their bodies brushing and tangling as they awkwardly made love, he had dreamed of a darkness eclipsing a bright sunny day. An all-consuming darkness that in the moment that swallowed all it enveloped but before he woke up, it was interrupted by a light. A brief but powerful light shining in the darkness that sent it fleeing back to the eldritch depths from which it had been born.

Connor sighed. It had been wrong of him, to be so easily swayed by Deborah. But he hated to disappoint, to rescind on a promise even when he had already broken so many. Perhaps Deborah was right… that the time to settle down and retire had come. He had successfully made the old man proud with what he had done already, hadn't he? But he reminded himself that it was a long and shrouded road he walked, that there was still much ground to cover. There was still a duty that he had to perform.

One last wail from the woman who lay on her back that very moment, and following came the sound of an infant's scream. The sounds stung at his nerves like heated needles. Slowly, the door to the bedroom creaked open. The doctor, his hair whitened and receding, propped his spectacle tinted head through the frame and nodded at Connor.

"You can come in now, Connor."

And as Connor walked through the door, he first saw Deborah on the bed. Her face was red, tired and huffing. She lay flat on her back, her arms and legs outstretched. She breathed in air through merciful, quick pants. She still managed to sneak in a smile as she saw him. She mouthed words to him in spite of her weakened state. We did it, Connor. She seemed to be saying. He wasn't sure what to say back. It was a surreal moment, to have finally become a father. It didn't seem like too long ago this as he stood overlooking the scene at this very moment, the memories of the days he hated the most. The world around him burns as smoke billows into the sky, the village razed and collapsing. He tries to save the woman but he isn't strong enough to do it, to pull the plank trapping her off. The last thing that his mother says to him before the world around her is consumed by a great closing ring of fire, one last declaration of a mother's love. And the strong hands of his father, the man's face contorted with hate, as they tightened around his neck. The sound the knife made as it slid into Haytham's neck. How in the end, in spite of their differences, their war, a father was proud of his son.

What if it happened it all again, to his child? It was too soon… but before he could continue dwelling in his thoughts someone was saying words that were blurred out by his shock. He saw someone take something wrapped in a bundle of colored clothes and set it his arms. The infant felt so lightweight, so fragile, that he almost dropped it in shock. But he strengthened his grip, and he looked down at the baby in his arms. No, it wasn't just any baby. It was his child. The child stopped crying, it looked up at Connor with its wonder-filled eyes. They were his eyes staring back at him, Connor realized. He felt warmer now, like a veil of ice being shattered within him.

"What shall we call him, Connor?"

He thought about it.

"Matthew. Matthew Kenway." He hadn't intended to adopt his father's name, but the words had slipped from his mouth almost like it was predestined and beyond his control.

Ahead of him and his family lay a road long and shrouded in darkness. Even with the hope that filled in him as he held infant Matthew in his arms, he had a tinge of nervousness at his core. It would be a journey of trial and error for him as a parent, and he prayed that he would do the child right.


	4. Sequence 1: Two Farewells

_In his personal memoirs, buried within rows and rows of other buried works in one of the Assassin archives, Connor described the three years that followed the birth of his son as one of the brightest, brief periods of his life even. In spite of his initial reluctance to take upon the role, he enjoyed his new duty as a fledgling father, raising his son on the Homestead alongside Deborah Carter with the occasional but rarer trip to the territories and states. In those days, he scaled back the activities of the Assassin Order for a short time until the dark horse reared its head once more briefly during his trip to the Northwest. Everything seemed to be going fine, even with the wake that followed the election of Washington and the passing of the Constitution. The storm that brewed in France to Connor seemed only trifling. He did encounter the Templars during this time, but he perceived it only as a minor inconvenience for he did not know their true strength until later. In those three years, he found himself truly happy for the first time in many years. Hope flowed within him for the future, the son he would raise that would surely grow up to be a responsible, valiant man fit to inherit the reins of the Assassin Brotherhood._

_And my Uncle Matthew did inherit the reins of the Assassins upon Connor's eventual passing. But it was not in the way that Connor hoped things would turn out. _

_In 1793, with its population of 55,000, Philadelphia was the largest city in the United States and its first capitol. That year, it would host one of the hottest summers to hit our shores. The arid climate would allow for great hordes of insects to breed and thrive. In those days no one could walk even a short distance in Philadelphia without having to swat at a fly or mosquito. At the same time, the Caribbean islands to the south were experiencing a period of great political upheaval and turmoil. With the summer came swarms of refugees. The refugees carried with them infected blood. Blood that would soon be transmitted by the lifesucking mosquitoes from a refugee to a native Philadelphian, and from that city-dweller to another. And thus began the Yellow Fever Pandemic of 1793._

_Deborah Carter paid her old friends at the Philadelphia branch a visit that summer. A visitor, uninvited and unseen, snuck its way into the carriage that she rode home in. The little bug was swatted, but the damage was done. The drink had been taken, the blood mixed. The symptoms didn't present themselves until she was already back at home. Following her departure, the dead would start to pile up. The President and all his men would flee the city as the doctors, unable to form the connection between the mosquitoes and the disease, hopelessly toiled to salvage the situation. Only when the first glimpses of the arrival of winter fell would the pandemic cease to be. By then, Deborah Carter was only a footnote in a ledger of the Yellow Fever's two thousand or so victims._

* * *

Something was wrong. Deborah seemed tired as she stepped out of the carriage. She walked with a limp, as if her back was in a great pain. Her hair was untied, disheveled. There were murky circles beneath her blinking eyes, as if Deborah had been unable to catch any sleep on the trip back from Philadelphia. It was a grim contrast to the Deborah he had seen on the day she had departed, energetic and enthusiastically sharing a few jokes and teases with Connor.

He protectively placed his arm around her, helping her walk up the manor's front steps. All the while, Deborah rubbed her head and moaned of a great, dizzying sensation. She asked him why everything felt so hot.

Connor shook his head, telling her that the weather at the Homestead was the same as it always had been. He grew concerned that something had happened to her in Philadelphia, but she told him that there was nothing to become trifled about. All that had happened to her was that bite, by a mere bug… what difference could an insect no bigger than a few pebbles have done to her? She assured Connor that she would be fine after a hard day's night of rest. Locking herself in their bedroom, Connor spent the night alone. He didn't sleep one wink, using the hours of darkness to look over his growing son as the child slept soundly in his bed.

So it seemed to be at first, Deborah Carter recovered from her sickness. The pain in her joints and head went away, the burning fever upon her forehead faded away like the morning's clouds on a sunny afternoon. She greeted Connor in full spirits that morning, eating a great big breakfast. They took Matthew out for a ride in the harbor that day, Deborah pointing out the docked Aquila and the fleeting birds to the wide-eyed three-year old as Connor rowed the small boat. The beautiful day let the worried Connor put his mind at ease, and the concern that had gripped him when he first saw Deborah upon her return was buried in the far recesses of his memory. For the next few days, he had nothing to worry about. His mind was at ease. The Assassins were stronger than ever, the Templars showed no sign of rising from the ashes in spite of Haytham's final warning to his son to the powerful state they were. The Templars that he had encountered - there seemed to be no sign of the "great and powerful" return that the one in the Ohio territory had promised him anytime soon. Denial by the remnants in the face of a world they could not face. He had built a city upon a hill in the Homestead, he had a beautiful and well-hearted lover, and his son would grow up to be a fine man that would carry on the family legacy.

It was not to be.

The fever returned after a week, unmerciful. Deborah Carter became resigned, as she lay bedridden and miserable. Her skin had turned ghastly white with a sickening shade of yellow. Occasionally, she would vomit into a nearby bedpan. The vomit was filled with blood, the clots of it black instead of red. The vomits grew more frequent, the heat on her head hotter as the days passed as the woman herself grew weaker and weaker. She passed into delirious lulls, raving madly at Connor. She sometimes mistook him for someone else, other times she would angrily insult him. The words cut at him like a dagger. He took the full blunt of her offenses, not retaliating for he didn't wish to further distress her. When she lapsed back into sanity, he tried to comfort her. Keep her strong, away from the tears, in the hopes that she might just recover.

But she never did. She got worse and worse, the periods of madness longer and in her final tumble into delirium Deborah seemed to forget everything all together. The Assassins, Connor, even her own son. She was an amnesiac, not unlike the unknowing innocence of a newborn babe. But she didn't cry, didn't weep about what might've been. Deborah appeared to become resigned to her fate before the end.

Connor remained by her bedside until the very end, where she grew cold. As she passed into a dazed stupor that she would never wake from, Connor held her hand and whispered words to her in his native language. He didn't let Matthew see her. He didn't want to pain his son, for him to see the state that his mother was in and what she was about to become.

On the day that Deborah Carter died, Connor silently took the body of the mother of his child in his arms and carried her down the steps. Like Deborah, he found himself resigned, in full melancholy acceptance instead of grieved denial. He had already sent word ahead to the carpenters, to have a coffin constructed. He had the household attendants keep Matthew away, to avoid seeing the pitiful corpse of Deborah. With an iron weighing him down, he placed Deborah in the wooden box and sealed the lid. He took one last look at her face, her expression emotionless and her skin pale. There were still specks of black blood near her lips. He wiped them away. Later, he would have the bed sheets and blankets of the bedroom burned and replaced. Lifting the black box, he limped to the cliff overlooking the seaside outside the manor where he had buried the old man. Taking hold of shovel once more, he dug another grave for another who had been held close and dear to him. And when it was done, Deborah beneath the Earth, Connor stood still and silent. He looked over upon the seaside, hoping that he could find the right words to say. But none came to mind.

_The passing of Deborah Carter marked the end of a pithy renaissance. There was a wound in Connor after her death that would never be fully mended – it was easily to understand his reluctance when another eager woman came around. A miracle indeed, that my mother was ever born. As for Matthew, even at the age of three, the death of his mother would have catastrophic results that would shape the man he became. As Connor had predicted when Deborah first showed up on his doorstep, he returned to his responsibilities as the Assassin Mentor as a storm gathered to close out the eighteenth century. Matthew was raised in isolated bursts, his father now uncomfortable around the child as he reminded the man too much of his lost love. The way he raised Matthew became one of his greatest regrets outlined in his memoirs. As Matthew reached adulthood, he and father were constantly at odds which only further intensified after Helena was born. By then, Connor was already trying to hand the reins to the reluctant Matthew, choosing to settle down at last, to train and raise his daughter the way he had wished he'd done with Matthew. His angers, his frustrations, his insecurities, Helena gave Matthew Kenway another outlet to direct them at. _

_At the end of the decade, there was one last loose end to be tied for Connor before he could take in the new century. As for what else he did during the 1790s, they are to be discussed in the next segment of this reflection described to the best of what I know. This loose end was a man he once called Commander, who had taught him a great deal about the cold truth of the world and in a sense molded Connor through his actions one fateful day during his childhood. And as such, the Assassin mounted a horse and traveled from the Homestead all the way towards Mount Vernon, Virginia._

* * *

Wintertime, December 12th 1799.

A cloak of gray clouds hung over the vast estate at Mount Vernon. From high in the sky the harshest elements of nature streamed onto the plantation below, covering the fields and trees with a lofty layer of snow. On that day, hail bombarded the landscape as freezing rain complemented the ruthless cacophony of weather. Surely, a sane man would resign himself to the indoors on such a day. Keep warm as the slaves tend to the fire and cook a great big meal. But George Washington paid such concerns no heed, despite nearing seventy and his body greatly susceptible to the elements at play. Riding on his steed, he galloped through Mt. Vernon, making inspections to the plantation.

He stopped the horse by the trees farthest from the manor, feeding the mare an apple. The rain had drenched his coat and hat, the only protections he wore from the elements. His soggy clothes hung to his skin, damp and tight. The damned wind chilled his bones, the rain mixed with sleet and snow freezing the blood in running his veins. Yet the horse seemed more miserable than he. It would be over soon enough, and he would be out of this accursed weather before long back in the company of Martha. Washington was confident that the weather was only a momentary damper on the mood, nothing too great to worry about.

As he was about to depart to continue his inspection, he heard a crunch. Like a hoof stepping on a twig. Instinctively, Washington grabbed to unsheathe a sword from his side, only to find that there was no sheathe and in his hand he held empty air. Washington yelled out, demanding that whoever was nearby identify themselves or face arrest for intrusion upon private property. And through the snowstorm came a figure cloaked in white and fur coat wrapped around him on top a pale horse. Washington's mouth almost dropped as he recognized the man beneath the beaked hood. His face was older, more lines of turmoil and endurance engraved into his expression but there was no mistaking it as to who this rider was.

"Connor." said Washington.

"Commander." replied Connor.

"Why are you here, Connor? It is a long way from New York, Boston, wherever you made your home."

"To say my good-byes, Commander."

Washington remembered the night at Valley Forge. Connor and a man in blue had walked to his tent as he finalized his orders, the ones that would deal with the trouble of the natives siding with the British. He had recognized Connor instantly, the mysterious half-breed in the white hood who had done so much for the war effort. But there was also an aura of secrecy shrouding his companion. Washington had thought there was something troubling about the companion's presence, that there was something ominously familiar about the man in the blue hat. When he saw the stranger, his mind had briefly flashed back to the Expedition, back to the traitor who had chased down and gutted his commander Braddock and the Native woman who had pinned him down and humiliated him. He knew that the stranger meant trouble. He should've had his men keep the blue man at bay, while he spoke to Connor alone.

But instead the man forced his way into Washington's tent, fawning over and leafing through his documents like they were his. Washington remembered full well the look on Connor's face as the man in the blue hat read his orders aloud and how quickly he was refuted when he tried to justify his case. As the man in blue mocked him, calling him a weak man only capable of making excuses for his actions, Connor's face was like glass shattering into a million pieces.

Connor only saw one side of the argument, the one where his village was about to be razed. He didn't see Washington's reasons for doing so, the woman and children brutally murdered by the British-endorsed Indian raids on the frontier settlements. But it was hopeless to argue with the boy. The devil in blue had already shattered his image in Connor's eyes. Their relationship had been beaten to bits and thrown off a cliff. Whenever the two had met after the war, Connor had always treated him with an air of snide contempt for his weaknesses. Now, it seemed that the Native had finally returned to make good on his promise of killing Washington. But Washington felt no fear, no need to resort to petty begging for mercy.

"Well then, Connor, I understand. By all means, go ahead and have your vengeance. I take it as it comes."

"You misinterpret my words, Commander. Perhaps, there was once a time where I would've gladly accepted your offer with the blade. But that time has long passed and I find little use in dwelling on our past. I am just here, Commander, to pay my final respects. Bring us full circle."

So the two rode side by side, reluctantly, for the first time since the Revolution. Connor seemed unfazed by the cold, unsympathetic to what the weather had done to Washington. They rode across the fields, past the blacksmith, past the stables, across the wilderness and through the pocket of rich Southern civilization. The two of them talked as they rode, about the past and the present and what future lay in store. The two stopped at the distillery. Washington offered the Assassin a bottle of spirits, but Connor declined.

"During my presidency, I thought you very well vanished from the face of the world. Those were some tumultuous years… I thought that eventually you would rear your head again and perhaps offer me one last round of guidance or assistance but you could not be found. Not since the night with the odd sphere."

"Strange indeed, Commander. For we were watching you, making sure you never stepped out of line. You came close, many times. Like when you dealt with the Whiskey Boys."

"Those self-created societies threatened what we strove to build with the Revolution. My friend Jefferson may claim that little bits of rebellion are healthy to a democratic society, but our society was shaking and trembling at the edges. To preserve liberty, I had to ensure that the union could be preserved. And I hope that my successors will use the best of their efforts to keep our flag flying, Connor. Would you have done the same?"

"Maybe you are right, Commander, but the way you accomplished it through sheer force alone was wrong. It lacked discipline, respect demanded through force instead of appealing for it. The company you kept, the sniveling man that served as your treasurer, we watched him the entire time. He was a liability, Commander. It would've been for the best had you thrown him from his office."

"Hamilton meant well. He wasn't the best with people, but he loved our country. He only sought to strengthen our government. It was noble of him, to be able to make the sacrifices that he did for the sake of our Union. His economic and governmental decisions were very much the same reason I chose to avoid aiding France in their war against the British. War is like a plague, Connor, and the sooner we as a people are able to banish it the better off the world will be. Look back, Connor, a few years. We were weak and young, with nowhere to go but up. Liberty is a fast growing seed, but a functioning society based around it takes longer to plant. We did what we had to, to ensure America could grow."

"Your belief of isolation and neutrality are admirable, Commander. But what of Hamilton? How did he improve the ideals of liberty? By taking control away from the people and handing it to ruling elite?"

"Mankind, when left to themselves, are unfit for their own government. We have to establish an example for the rest of the world to follow. You see Connor, just as there is now a United States of America there will one day be a United States of Europe. It has already started, with France, despite what ultimately became of it. We need to create a perfect model, to ensure that democracy shall thrive and not degrade into a pool of anarchy and blood like France."

"Perhaps, Commander. We shall see what becomes of your lofty ideals when you and your peers are long buried and a new generation has taken control. I see that already, your successor has challenged them. I hear he has offered you your old military position back, has he not?"

"Adams is at a disadvantage, yes. Having to fill my position and clean up the remnant messes of my administration, such as France as you are surely inferring to. He was never the best with people. The masses did not inaugurate him with parades and cheers as they did with me, and he similarly does not love them in return. Even his own party members, such as Hamilton, jeer and conspire against him. But he is a learned man, very intelligent and he did what he could, in spite of his stumbles and mistakes. But the people do not share this view, and I don't find it likely that that he will serve for as long as I had. Jefferson and his men, they are sure to be planning something. It is a pity, Connor. United we fought through the Revolution, only to turn on each other once we got what we want in a never ending series of squabbles and debates over how this country out to be run."

"My father warned me that was what would happen to the nation after the Revolution. Perhaps he was right, in a way, like he was about many things."

The two departed from the distillery. They rode back to the main estate. At Connor's request, they stopped near the slave cabin.

"What of them? You fought for liberty, yet it wasn't granted to all."

"Freedom is a gradual process, Connor. If we tried to do too much at once, we would have very well damned our own nation. Did you know that at one of our conventions, that old coot Benjamin Franklin, by then well into his 80s, had stormed in demanding that we emancipate all the Africans? Already we were arguing at each other's throats over the issue of slavery – I worried that this division between our country would compromise the unity that the Revolution instilled in us. We compromised then, burying the issue, but it will return. But one day, heed my words, Connor, all will walk freely under one banner in America."

"You claim to be opposed to the institution, yet you continue to keep your slaves. A pity, Commander. Even now, you remain a man of contradictions."

"There is no man who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for the abolition of slavery. I can no longer find it within me, to keep them in shackles for both economic and moral reasons. I did not hunt my runaways, I replaced them with paid servants instead. I've even arranged for my remaining Negroes to be freed upon me and Martha's death."

"Liberation only when you and your kin can no longer reap their benefits. Inspiring, Commander. Your human compassion warms my heart."

"Connor, I-"

"Don't make excuses, Commander. Is that not one of your sayings? That it is better to have no excuses for your actions rather than a bad one?"

The rest of their ride was in silence. They stopped in front of the manor, looking back at the vast estate stretching around them. Without saying anything, Connor started to ride away.

"Connor, the weather is getting crueler by the moment. Perhaps you ought to lodge for the night? Martha and I would both be willing to host and dine with you. And when the weather clears up, we can possibly play one final round of bocce?"

"No, Commander. This is where we part for good. Our journey is over. But perhaps I will leave you with one final bit of advice, as your acquaintance from all those years back. You ought to change out of those clothes, Commander. The longer you stay in those, the more you risk coming down with a case of the cold or worse."

"I never feared sickness, Connor. I took it as it came."

"Farewell then, Commander."

"'tis well, Connor."

It was to be the last time Connor and George Washington saw each other. The following day, Washington had become afflicted with a sore throat, but he continued to inspect Mt. Vernon in spite of the continuing harsh weather. He ignored the suggestion of his secretary Lear to take medicine, confident that he would take the cold as it came to him. He wasn't worried about his sudden hoarseness, contentedly spending the rest of the day reading newspapers in his wife's company. The former commander, the former President, George Washington, had no doubts or qualms of the coming day.

On Saturday, December 14th 1799 George Washington died of illness.

His final words were 'tis well.

The nation mourned for the fallen Founding Father, but Connor felt no sadness. Just a small bit of pity for the Commander as his Revolution came full circle. As flawed as the Commander had been, he had still taught Connor some of his most important lessons about placing too much trust, hope, and responsibility upon one man. Like his father, Connor looked back at Washington and saw the good, the bad, and the ugly of his character. And in the end, Connor decided that Washington was the same as the rest of them. Just a man, filled with the same light and the same darkness that came with the rest.


	5. Sequence 1: From the Ashes

_Annapolis, 1786_

Alexander Hamilton, thirty-one and having the time of his life, departed the Annapolis convention with mixed feelings. It had been a gathering of fools, scarcely anyone had showed up to discuss the gripping economic issues that threatened the survival of their country on the global stage. At this rate, they would never be able to do anything about those crippling Articles of Confederation to strengthen the central government. They would only be able to sit back and watch as the quarreling and power-hungry states tore about the Union. He, of course, had been the star of the convention. He had charisma, a need to do things right and fast that the rest of the cretins present had lacked. It was thanks to him, that they would meet again the next year in Philadelphia to hopefully accomplish what this wasted trip hadn't.

But who was he to play make believe? The states would never ratify anything that even presented the slightest hint of something as light as reducing a bit of their individual governing freedoms. So paranoid were they of returning to the Crown days that the states wouldn't even take the most vital step to ensuring that those days would never come to pass again. The anarchic bastards had prevented anything Congress tried to pass from reaching ratification unless they benefitted somehow, and they would surely shoot down whatever came out of the next convention. He just wanted to strengthen this nation so that it would endure, but he knew that he could not accomplish it by himself. He had heard all the jeers directed at him for his illegitimate roots, his English blood. He would need help, in doing so. Perhaps Washington or some of other popular Revolutionaries could help. But how? He would need to expand his sphere of influence somehow.

He stormed to his carriage, which would take him back to New York. He would appreciate the return of familiar air, Annapolis was too damn close to the juvenile Southern states for his tastes.

Alexander Hamilton hadn't expected the inside of the carriage to be filled with blackish smoke, with two passengers waiting for him. Common riff-raff, hoping to catch a free ride. Alexander was about to bellow and throw the two of them out when one of them spoke up in a deep voice.

"An impressive speech for a convention that accomplished nothing."

"Who are you?" Hamilton demanded, unnerved by the ominous image that the near cloaked men conveyed through the indiscernible veil of smoke.

"Our names do not matter. You can call me Number One and my companion Number Two for reference. We represent a secret association, recently reduced to scattered remnants by our enemies, an equally mysterious brotherhood. We are weak, unable to accomplish much nowadays without being hunted down by them. Not too different from your situation, is it not? When was the last time Congress tried to accomplish something without the state legislatures stopping them in their tracks? So we seek to propose an alliance with like-minded men such as you – ruling elite to guide this nation before it falters to its destruction at the hands of total anarchy."

"You mean men like Washington, do you not?"

"Washington is a fool, and we have often worked to eliminate him from the equation to no success, but he is easily swayed by men with the right words. Men such as you, Hamilton."

"How can I do anything? I may represent the state of New York but from a national viewpoint my influence is worth naught a silver dollar."

"We will help you, Hamilton, in exchange for your help."

"Anything for the nation, Number One."

And so Number One and Number Two told Hamilton of their plan, what he was to help accomplish at the Constitutional Convention next year and what they would do for him in exchange.

* * *

It was the city where his father had arrived in America, where he had become embroiled in the Patriot cause, and where he had finally confronted his nemesis Charles Lee. Following Lee's death and his pledge to rebuild the Assassins in America, Connor had spent hardly a fleeting moment in the city. Too much had happened here, too many memories that were best left buried in the annals of forgotten memories and wasted time. But today, in the year 1791, where he should've been at the Homestead huddled up with Deborah and Matthew near a warm fireplace on this cruel winter's day he had returned to Boston. It was a first for his new Brotherhood, the death of the leader of one of the branches.

Abraham Sallow had given him the news, ferrying the Massachusetts branch's request for his presence. Reluctantly, in spite of the protests of Deborah, he had obliged their appeal. Sallow had accompanied him on the Aquila as they sailed towards Boston, trying to keep Connor awake during the monotonous trip. Connor sat vaguely interested next to Sallow on the coachman's seat, gazing as they sailed past fields and trees and towns buried in the pure white powder, gazing down at the waves lapping in perfect pattern as they hit the starboard side of the ship.

Sallow was a willowy man, his muscle emaciated and his face shrunken from managing both his plantation and an Assassin double life concurrently. On the left side of his lip he bore a faint scar, a dueling wound. He had noble qualities, but he was also submissive and in constant self-doubt of his own abilities. Clipper had found the man. Connor protested the induction of a slave owner into the Brotherhood, but he relented when Clipper persuaded him that the man could be turned in time.

"Mentor, I think that you should take refuge below deck and let someone else take the wheel. Quite a miserable day, if I must say so myself. Best you tuck yourself in or we'll both be frostbitten before long."

"No need to worry, Sallow. I have seen men brave winters crueler than this and they lacked the comforts that we possess now."

He thought back to Valley Forge, the scores of stark-naked men in ragged excuses for uniform shivering miserably and hungrily as the British mockingly had settled down in the conquered troves of Philadelphia and New York. And yet, the Patriots in spite of their losses and drastic living conditions, remained jubilant. It had been Washington's work to thank for that, the commander willingly sharing in their plight as the foreigners Lafayette and Von Steuben shaped them into a force worthy of combating the regulars. That was something he grudgingly admit was admirable about Washington, in spite of his weaknesses and contradictions. He knew how to appeal.

He remembered how when strolling amongst the battlements and crude tents of Valley Forge, he had chanced upon Lafayette. The French officer, young and enthusiastic, was eager enough to chat with the Mohawk Assassin and told him an amusing tale of crossdressing to safely cross the Atlantic to fight for the Patriot cause. At the end of their chatting, Lafayette had invited Connor to one day come and visit him in France. It was an offer he declined, perhaps regrettably. He wondered how different his life would be if he had taken the charter across the ocean years ago. But with the situation now, it wasn't likely he would ever heed Lafayette's invitation.

And with thoughts of Valley Forge inevitably came thoughts of his ill-fated alliance with his father. How their mutual unwillingness to let go of their ideals and compromise led to one final confrontation and death.

"Very well then, Connor. But don't complain when this snow ruins your best clothes. That is quite a nifty hat you are wearing at this very moment."

* * *

_Philadelphia, 1789_

"Are you impressed, Hamilton, with what we even in our disorganized state can influence?" Number One greeted him in his new office. Number Two silently stood by the sideline, watching Hamilton with cold skeptical eyes.

"Secretary of Treasury. This is better than I could have expected. To what must I owe you gentlemen for your services?" Hamilton asked as he gazed over blank papers that would soon be filled with his plans for the future of America. It was not just this frail economy that he would stabilize, but the entire nation. In the future, they would become the most powerful and industrious empire on the globe, one that even Britannia would bow down to. And it would be all thanks to him.

"Just do your job as it requires, Hamilton. Reshape this nation's battered economy, and perhaps if you do well we shall meet again in the future to discuss our pressing matters."

And Number One and Number Two quickly departed Hamilton's office. Outside they passed Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, who threw the two strangers suspicious glances. Were those two just in Hamilton's office? There seemed something extremely ominous about the New Yorker to the two Virginians, his grandiose plans involving banks and manufacturing-based industries posed for the goodwill of the common people.

* * *

Connor and Sallow stepped off the Aquila at the dock. The damn docks still smelt thoroughly of rotting cod, Connor thought with some twisted nostalgia. The crowds were as swelled as ever, children weaving in and out picking pockets while stray cats and dogs hung around tepidly in putrid corners and alleyways. A local Assassin joined them, a tired-looking man dressed inconspicuously in a brown hood. He looked like a common vagrant, and could easily disappear into the crowd if trouble reared its head.

"So how did it happen? The passing of Stephane?"

"It was bound to happen one day. The mad man had been raving about France non-stop for close to two years on end now. He got so drunk in celebration we had to restrain him and throw him into a holding cell when news of the Bastille reached us. The mad bastard swore that it was our natural duty to sail to France in great longboats armed to the teeth with cannons and swivel guns, to spread our message of Assassins and democracy to the rest of the world and end monarchy for good. We all frankly thought him foolish, but he never let up. With nothing but laughter from us, he had to snap eventually. In broad daylight, he had a bit too much to drink and tried to commandeer a ship. With his pants hanging down. Before we or the authorities could intervene to stop him, he had stolen a small rowboat and was sailing off into the Atlantic. None of us had the heart to yell out to him that he was rowing towards Brazil, not France."

"I see… even I, as his teacher, am finding it quite hard to deduce just what to think about Stephane's passing now that I know of its circumstances."

"Never was quite a good legislator… too damn drunk and mad to do anything. Was a lousy cook, as well. His passing comes as some relief – we were beginning to worry that we would have to usurp him ourselves."

"Why am I here then? Are none of you responsible to take up his mantle without some sort of guidance? Do you need superficial words of approval, like a neglected child begs of his apathetic father? In that case, I have a man who I think is quite suited to take over as your new headmaster. What do you say to taking over the Massachusetts Branch, Sallow?"

"What was that, sir?" Sallow's mouth had dropped open in surprise, quickly shutting it to conceal his surprise.

"You very well know what I said. I think that you would be happier, given that you have been promoted from your position of messenger boy." Connor told him, waving his arm over all of Boston they could see in the horizon.

"This is an honor… I don't know what to say… if I should even…"

"You have all the qualities of man suitable for the job, Sallow. Much better than Stephane, I must admit. You just need to perk up, swallow some of your nervousness, Sallow, and you will do just fine."

"I accept then, Mentor."

"One last request, Sallow, before you take post."

"What is it?"

"Free your slaves. Boston is your home now, you will have little need for them here."

A look of reluctance washed over Sallow's face, but it drowned in a sea of other emotions. He slowly nodded. "I'll have them freed, sent to Maryland where they can make their way north. They'll never be accepted in Virginia as it is, and while it's not much better here, at least they have somewhat of a chance of starting over."

* * *

_New York, 1791_

It was busy work, managing the bloody economy of this country. Especially when the rat Jefferson and his damn Democrat-Republican legionaries kept yapping at the injustice of his actions. Could those scoundrels only see for the present? Did they not see what Hamilton was doing, the long term benefits of his work? The bank and his other plans would strengthen the wealthy and only the wealthy, but in due time, with the nation prospering, the wealth would trickle down for even distribution. But damn it all, Jefferson was too blindly in love with his precious commoners to see the advantage of his magnum opus. He had already been forced to arrange for the nation's capitol, the District of Columbia or whatever it was called, to be constructed on the diseased Potomac region to satisfy them. What else would the Republicans force out of him by the time it was all over? He was grateful for Washington in these years. The man was by and large on Hamilton's side, ensuring that Jefferson and the common folk could never reduce everything to the brink of ruin.

He hoped that his mysterious friends could be convinced to do something about Jefferson, Madison, and the rest of their party. They stank of secession and other seditious acts that could very well damn the country. He would make a case for it after this meeting they had arranged. A carriage had been sent to him from New York. Fair enough. He was rather homesick, sick of Philadelphia air. What he hadn't been expecting was to be bound, blindfolded, and escorted by two brutish men likely to be Swedes judging by their size and accents.

He demanded the reasons for the treatment.

"Just in case you decline the offer."

"What damn offer? I wasn't informed of this!"

"You'll see, Mr. Hamilton."

He recalled hearing a door open. Not from the front, side, or back, but rather below him. He was thrust down a couple of short steps. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to leave his head spinning. One of the cursed Swedes laughed as Hamilton swore at the man. He ripped off his blindfold, and saw that he was in a lit underground cellar. Men and women sat at tables, lanterns resting. They gazed at him with piercing eyes, different levels of interests. Some had a look of admiration. Others… the look a bear gives right when he's about to catch a tasty fish. That worried Hamilton. Perhaps he had been wrong to trust these men of mystery. And was that Aaron Burr sitting there in the far corner?

A man stood up. It was Number One.

"I presume you had a pleasant trip, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Oh, the carriage ride was fine. Lovely scenery, a comfortable rhythmic pace. What I hadn't expected was to be bound up and shoved about like a degenerate prisoner."

"You'll have to excuse Axel and SÖren. It occasionally helps to have some with more muscle and little brains to spare on your side. Especially if you had turned on us. Like so many of your kind tend to do."

Hamilton puffed, wiping dust and debris from his coat. Idiot Swedes could've damn well ripped and ruined it. And he had spent so much to get it tailored just right.

"I have no such plans to pull a knife on the backs of those who have helped me so much these past years."

"A pleasing experience it has been to watch you reshape the pitiful economy of the States, although not completely to the way we hoped." Number One's tone of voice was growing ever more hostile, his neutrality slipping away. Hamilton noticed that Number One spoke with a slight French accent. Was he a Canadian or French immigrant?

"You have only my compatriots to blame for that. Thomas Jefferson and James Madison are unable to willingly accept changes as radical as mine."

"Someday, in the future, we will have to deal with that. But future conspiracies are not something we are quite capable of at the moment, Mr. Hamilton. Do you see all the men and women gathered now, in front of us? Numbering perchance twenty at best. This is all we could locate in all of New York and New Jersey. Our enemies, they have grown strong and watchful. Any chance we get to rise up again is quickly put down."

"I am starting to see how I factor into your plan, Number One."

"You are even more perceptive than I have given you credit, Mr. Hamilton. And please, I do believe it is time to drop the codenames and begin the formalities. I am Patrice Deschain. At your service, Mr. Hamilton." The two shook hands. It was then that Hamilton noticed the bracer that Patrice wore on his right arm. There was something shining and metallic resting in it.

"What about you, Number Two?" Hamilton called. Number Two appeared reluctant, but Patrice nodded to him. Number Two politely, but rather bluntly said, "Chambers. Gordon Chambers."

Patrice turned to the men and women gathered behind him. He cleared his throat and motioned for their undivided attention.

"Brothers, sisters, I believe it is time that we welcomed an ally to our cause. He has proven himself to be a loyal and efficient disciple, even if he possesses no knowledge of the righteous goals for which we fight. For years, we have lived divided and scattered through the states and territories hunted left and right by our sworn enemies the Assassins. No chance to rebuild, for each time we set up they come back like a strong wind to destroy our foundation. But now we have an intelligent and powerful man, who possesses both the means and know how of rebuilding our glorious rite from the ashes, to make us stronger than ever. He shall share in our hidden knowledge and partake in the benefits of our Order, and in return he shall help us accomplish great things. All in favor, raise your hands high!"

To Hamilton's shock, the entire room burst into cheers and applause. Some called his name out, chanting him on. Jefferson and his damn Republicans, even his own party the Federalists, none of them had ever treated him with such respect and admiration. Even the Swedish thugs were clapping. It was then, that he knew who he truly supported, who would truly help America become the great and beautiful he envisioned it as.

"Alexander Hamilton, do you swear to uphold the principles of our Order and for all that we stand?"

"I do."

"To never divulge our secrets or the true nature of our work to anyone not of the Rite?"

"I do."

"To do so until death, from this moment forward?"

"I do."

Patrice smiled. He took from within his trouser pocket a small silver ring. On top of the ring was a scarlet cross.

"Give me your hand, Hamilton. From this day forward, we shall pick up the pieces and revive Haytham Kenway's dream of a utopian nation defined by order and purpose. We shall march upon their strongholds, and we shall burn their Creed to the ashes of forgotten time. No more blind old men and their indoctrinated children to hinder our plans. And you shall lead the charge, Alexander Hamilton." Patrice told him as he slid the ring onto Hamilton's other ring finger.

"Alexander Hamilton… welcome to the Templars."


	6. Sequence 1: St Clair

**I had to make a few edits to Act 1 - Two Farewells in order to avoid creating plotholes/discrepancies with this chapter. I apologize for it and I will try to avoid more situations like this in the future regarding conflicting chapters.  
**

* * *

_Even in those three years of happiness, my grandfather was still forced to devote a small bit of troubled thought towards the situation brewing the Northwest. Following the treaty at Paris, the British Empire granted American settlers the Ohio territory which they had so lustfully longed for, but not quite the way they hoped. The native presence remained strong, and along the border the Canadians set up forts and laws to protect and aid the Natives from the American presence. _

_The Shawnee, the Miami, Huron, Lenape – these were just some of the many tribes that banded together as the Northwestern Confederacy to deal with the rush of American settlers. Even though his people, the Mohawk, were not among their ranks, Connor worried for his blood cousins. He doubted that they would be able to coexist with the settlers in peace – he had too much personal experience to think so. And he knew that the Americans would not deal fairly as the French and British had done in the past. _

_British agents, resentful of the American victory, schemed and manipulated violence between Confederacy and American. Even before the last decade of the eighteenth century, skirmishes had lit up the Northwest Frontier. Connor nor any of his fellows participated in these early events – they were too focused on strengthening their own organization before becoming involved in any large scale conflicts like the Revolution. _

_But in late 1791, that all changed. Connor and the Assassins could no longer sit on the sidelines and observe. It was a gradual process, but they were to become witnesses and participants in Ohio County War as the ancient war was at last revived. _

_Connor had traveled to Ohio after the January where he had promoted Sallow to head of the Massachusetts Branch. After another wonderful summer season spent with Deborah and growing Matthew, he had prepared a wagon in September. He had reluctantly accepted a kiss on the cheeks from Deborah, his Mohawk ideals regarding physical contact still running strong. Connor promised that he would return swiftly as he rode off. He planned to meet with members of the Confederacy, to spread the ideals of the Assassin Order and recruit promising individuals. What he hadn't planned was to be embroiled briefly in their battle against General St. Clair's army._

* * *

A cold November dawn, cloaking the slaughter which was about to unfold. Natives, ready for war, held their weapons close as they crouched walked through the trees towards the fort. Some of them had shaved their hair into mohawks, applying war paint in preparation for the coming battle. The quiet bird occasionally chirped, the trees throughout leaf-less and snow-topped. The only sound was of the rushing water of the nearby Wabash River. The American soldiers at Fort Recovery were blissfully unaware of the incoming threat, cleaning their weapons lethargically as they looked forward to whatever barely edible concoction was being served for breakfast today. All the while the mass of one thousand got closer and closer to the rim of the fort. At the very back of this movement was a man who stood out from the other natives. He carried in his veins blood of the white men and their sense of clothing fashion. Some of the natives found his hood to be funny, but none dared joke about it in his presence. At his side was the war chief of the Miami tribe, Mishikinaakwa, known to the Americans as Little Turtle.

"I do not suppose you are headed to the fort to sit down and negotiate terms?"

"St. Clair's men are weakened by low morale and illness. For each man that joins our cause, he loses ten through desertion or disease. The general has not even bothered to construct any defensive barricades, despite clear knowledge of our presence. We have gathered a thousand men. Weyapiersenwah brings the Shawnee, Buckongahelas brings the Lenape, and I bring my Miami. All of our men better equipped and trained than the soldiers at the fort. There is no better time to strike and leave a message to the Americans, Ratonhnhake:ton."

"There has to be some other way. One that does not involve slaughter to send a message."

"If there was another way, Ratohnhake:ton, would we have not sought it in place of our present course? But there is no other way. Time and time again, the Americans have shown themselves incapable of respecting our terms or us as equals. And with the British unable to protect us without inciting complete war, we are forced to command respect from the Americans. They fired the first shots, why do you not march over to Washington and demand that why does he not seek another way? Your people, the Mohawk, did they not suffer the same fate that we fight to avoid? Why do you speak of our cause in only half-hearted pessimistic support? Has their blood blinded you? I see you do not even come properly prepared. All of us combat their fire with fire to even the battlefield, and yet you still run around with a bow and arrow."

"I did not come here to aid your war, Mishikinaakwa. I intended to spread a message of a world where unity and peace can be obtained, without the need to thrown the country into war. This fight is not mine, and I refuse to spill the blood of the Americans unless it becomes necessary."

"Have it your way. But there is nothing you can do to change our course of action. It is like attempting to wade against the current of a rapid river, and you will only be washed away when your strength and will run out."

"At least let me scout ahead. Restrain your warriors for a few minutes, so I can observe them."

The Miami reluctantly nodded, shaking his head. Connor sprinted up a tree, soaring through the branches displacing snow with each step. The warriors looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious hooded Mohawk. But he moved quickly, like a spirit. The white blur flew like an eagle across the canopy of snow and wood, never stopping once to catch his breath. Upon reaching a split trunk close enough to the fort where he could perch and observe, Connor withdrew a small telescope.

His eyes scanned the fort, darting from makeshift tents to rigid men huddling in blue uniforms around fireplaces to small segments of artillery equipment. Little Turtle had been right – these soldiers were a sorry sight, appearing even less disciplined and committed than those he had fought alongside in the Revolution. His eyes settled as he at last located the general. The man was white haired and slightly double-chinned, dressed in a dark-blue general's uniform with starred-golden breeches upon his shoulders. Two men dressed in winter clothing, a cross between frontier necessities and city fashion were approaching the general. Connor found himself curious, as these men weren't soldiers. Traders, perhaps?

* * *

"Hello, Arthur." The general, taking a sip of his morning tea, wheeled around to see just who dared address him without acknowledgment of his rank. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized the Templar in front of him. Not the Grand Master, but an important one regardless. St. Clair quickly regained his composure and greeted Patrice Deschain, the man in the muted gray-black duster.

"Mr. Deschain… Mr. Chambers… good to see both of you again. What are you doing out here, so far from New York? Do you plan to take over my operation? I say nay. This is beyond your ranking, your jurisdiction."

"Nothing of the sort, Arthur. Hamilton sent us, to check up on your situation. He worries about the territories…. they give him quite the awful sort of headaches. Is this really the best the American army can muster? Do you not bear the name of the men who triumphed at Saratoga and Yorktown?"

"It's an absolute nightmare, Mr. Deschain. The small arms used by the troops arrived with most of them needing immediate repair. Cartridge boxes and other individual equipment arrived from storage at West Point with visible mold. We have no support to run our lines whatsoever, only the incompetent graciousness of the contractors to keep our supplies and transport moving. And of my army… a complete joke. Only a few behaved regulars, the rest untrained militiamen leeching away at our scarce bounty. They keep deserting, and the regulars that I can spare grow thinner with each batch that need to be recovered."

Patrice shook his head as he looked at the soldiers and meager fortifications around them. Almost nothing separated the camp from the wilderness around them.

"You haven't done much, have you? I would assume that your scouts would have warned you of any nearby Indians so that you could properly prepare. You are, after all, in the heart of a hostile country."

"You think that I can afford to trust the word of a damn savage? In all likelihood, the savages I employ plot to undermine our effort with their so-called reports of Little Turtle's movements. You can't depend on savages, friendly or not. They are simply a lower class of existence, children of the devil rather than God. It was a mistake to even use these blasted savages in the first place."

"Hamilton will not be pleased, Arthur."

"Well Hamilton can march down here himself if he's so damn displeased. Until then, he has no right to complain as he sits comfortably in Philadelphia while we freeze in Indian country. Now if you excuse me, gentlemen, I do believe it is time for breakfast."

At that moment, Little Turtle's army attacked.

* * *

Connor dashed through the chaotic battleground, past scores and scores of dead men in bluecoats. Little Turtle's first wave had been driven back and fired upon, but they refused to relent and had quickly flanked and overtaken the American's ground. Little Turtle had planned the assault wisely, having his marksmen focus on the artillerymen and officers instead of individual soldiers. He had stripped the Americans of men to arm their cannons and men capable of rallying the disorganized, panicked men into a coherent defensive force.

Some of the Americans tried to cluster and charge into the horde of Natives with their bayonets held forward, but each attempt resulted in them being surrounded and completely annihilated. Connor weaved in and out of bullet fire as shells flew by him narrowly missing. He was glad that he kept the artifact, the one that reflected metal that had been found on Oak Island, with him. Some of the Americans tried to engage him, but keeping true to his pledge, he merely knocked them aside and kept going. The two men who spoke with the general had aroused his suspicions; he would find them, overpower the three and interrogate them.

Not even the civilians had been spared, Connor noticed with disgust, as he saw some dead women and uniformed men collapsed on red snow in front of him. Innocents wiped out as if they were soldiers fighting in battle. If he did find anyone qualified to join the Brotherhood, they would have to be severely retrained. He had even seen some of them mutilating the bodies of the dead bluecoats, lifting them by the hair and carving the scalp off. The Americans were falling back. The general had given up on rallying his men as three horses were consecutively shot to death beneath him. They had managed to break through the native lines at last, fleeing into the woods. The natives had followed them, cutting as many bluecoats down as they could. Connor had followed them through the treetops, unable to do anything to stop the slaughter. He was torn between two worlds here, unable to pick a side to fight for.

Eventually, the natives had pulled back to return to and loot what remained of Fort Recovery. That was when Connor made his act, leaping from the above at a straggler native atop a horse who was far enough from the bulk of Little Turtle's army. The native had barely a moment to notice the displaced snow fall atop him, look up, and scream a silenced scream as the man in the hood fall on him. Connor clamped a strong hand to muzzle the native, and from his wrist he extracted the hidden knife. He plunged it into the native's neck and tossed him aside, riding in full speed pursuit of the escaping Americans.

As he charged into the fleeing ranks, his eyes focused in and locked onto the general and his two companions. Reached for the bow, he took an arrow from his quiver and pulled back on the string. Releasing his grip, the arrow traveled through the air past a blur of blue. Without warning, Arthur St. Clair's horse collapsed and he went tumbling forward like a rolling barrel. The bulk of his militia, too frightened and worried for their own lives, streamed past him unwilling to do a thing to help their general. But the two men departed their horses, as well as some of the officers and regulars that had survived the slaughter.

Arthur St. Clair shook his head, the world around him spinning a blurring jumbled mess of colors and shapes. The men were shouting at something in the distance, gathering into a protective firing line. Someone, Patrice or Gordon, was helping him up. He heard the sound of musket fire, and screams of futility. Bastard soldiers couldn't even shoot straight to save their lives. Or more importantly, his. As his vision slowly returned, he saw a figure in a white hood leap off of a horse at the crowd of his defenders. Using only his fists, he weaved in and out dodging blows and fire as they tried in vain to keep him away. In mere minutes, several bluecoats were sprawled across the cold winter ground writhing and disarmed. The rest fled, joining the horde.

The man in the hood spoke to them slowly, in a commanding tone.

"Time to talk."

"I don't think so." The man in gray-black, his black hair tied back took out a pistol and fired at Connor. Connor rolled to dodge the shot. At that moment, St. Clair quickly clambered onto one of the remaining horses and began to sprint away.

"We'll cover your escape, Arthur. But believe us, after Washington hears of your blunder, you will wish that you died amongst your men this day."

The man in gray-black stood between Connor and his escaping quarry. Joining his side was the other man, ashen-haired and younger in appearance. The two withdrew swords. A saber and a dirk. The man in gray-black twirled his blade and beckoned to Connor.

"You will have to kill both of us if you want to talk to the general. And by then he will have already made well his escape."

"Let me pass. I wish to spill no blood here. We are strangers, with no existing quarrel worth taking our lives over." His tomahawk remained holstered, his blades retracted.

"Ah, I wish that to be true. I would like nothing better than to get to know each other peacefully over a cup of coffee and some fresh oliekoeks, but circumstance prevents it. For you see, there is a quarrel between the three of us here…. is that not the truth, Assassin?"

Connor stepped back. "What? But the Templars were…"

"Have you forgotten already? Did you think that we died with Charles Lee and your father? How naïve, if that was what you thought, Connor. Have you never heard the tale of the hydra? The old rite was merely one head, and we grew to take its severed place." The man smiled at him, relishing in Connor's discovery.

"You should flee, Assassin. Run up into the trees and scurry away until you find some bale of hay like your kind always do." The ashen-haired man spoke at last. He waved his weapon at Connor wildly.

"I will not leave until I have acquired the information I hope you and the general possess. Your refusal to step aside leaves me no choice, then." Connor brandished his tomahawk in one hand, knife in the other.

"Patrice Deschain. Pleased to make your brief acquaintance, Connor."

And the two Templars descended on Connor.

Connor blocked a blow from Patrice with his tomahawk, sparks flying as metal met metal. Patrice's companion swung his sword wildly at Connor, each attack deflected by a counter with the knife. The men may both have been Templars, but they contrasted in swordsmanship. Patrice, similar to his father Haytham, was schooled in fencing and fought with a talented precision and speed. He was evenly matched with Patrice, but his companion on the other hand was undisciplined. He fought wildly, only focusing on the next attack instead of the entire battle. He left himself open to attack everywhere, and Connor quickly exploited this. As Gordon Chambers spread his arms wide out, sword in hand, he felt a boot strike his chest. Gurgling, he collapsed and Connor kicked the dirk away.

It was a duel now.

"Even if I fall by your blade, Connor, you cannot win the war. We have spent these last few years reorganizing and picking up the pieces, and while we may not be at the strength of your father's rite just yet, we shall one day rise up and you Assassins shall at last meet your reckoning."

He knocked Connor back, cutting his clothing with the tip of his saber.

"You mentioned Washington to the general. Have you finally roped him into your schemes?" Connor, lunging with his knife, slit a small cut on Patrice's cheek who quickly recovered and forced Connor into the defensive.

"George Washington, the 'ol commander in chief? We would never include vermin of his inferiority into our Order… but yes, he is a pawn in our plan." Connor rolled out of the way just in time to dodge a swipe that would've taken off his head.

"What is your plan? Does it involve the northwest territory war?"

"You speak as if I am a classical storybook villain. Willing to take the time to stand back and exposit every bit and piece of our plan so that you may foil it in the nick of time. No Connor, I'll prefer killing to talking at this moment."

With a slice, Patrice knocked the tomahawk from Connor's hand. With only his hidden blades to defend him now, Connor continued to ward off Patrice's attacks.

"The rumors are true, I see. I always wondered how a damned half-breed that grew up amongst sticks and mud ever managed to overpower Haytham Kenway, but now I see that I underrated your battle prowess. You are damned relentless… but you're bound to give out eventually in the face of overwhelming odds. Still, an admirable effort. I wish I could offer you the chance to finally turn and make your father proud, but you are too much of damn liability."

Patrice kept mentioning Haytham. To get a psychological edge on Connor. But he was not going to grant Patrice the satisfaction of slaying the Assassin who killed Haytham Kenway.

"You talk as though you have won when this fight is far from finished."

"And you act as though you still stand a chance of turning the tide, when everything has been stacked against you. Nothing but two tiny knives to ward off a master swordsman." He knocked Connor against a tree, and raised his arm for the finishing blow.

"Your hubris gets the better of you. And you forget one thing, Patrice. I am no mere opponent like these soldiers… hastily trained and sent out the door. I am an Assassin, trained by one of the finest mentors to have walked this Earth."

Connor rolled as the saber embedded itself deep in the bark of the tree. As Patrice struggled to pull it out, Connor snatched one of the fall muskets and hit Patrice over the head with the butt-end. Patrice fell flat on his back, and Connor stepped over him. He tossed the musket aside and held his pistol in between Patrice's brown eyes.

"Now you talk."

"I would take your bullet a thousand times over, relive the pain and coldness of death each time before I divulge any of our secrets to you. So come on, Connor. Pull the trigger. Bring me death, Assassin."

"I shall." Patrice smirked at this. "Only after you give me what I want to hear." And his smile turned into a frown.

"You aren't going to make this easy, are you, Assassin? Stubborn to the bitter end."

"You are in no position to make demands or threats, here. Tell me about your plans, and I shall make it merciful."

And from behind a strong force like a bull grabbed Connor. A stiletto dangled mere centimeters from his throat. Patrice's companion. Of course. He hadn't killed the man, only left him downed on the ground. An amateur's mistake Connor couldn't believe he had made, giving the opponent ample time to recover and surprise you. But the man's grip wasn't as strong as his grab, slippery and easy to throw off. Was he attempting to fight Connor off again, seeing how easily he was defeated the first time?

"Run!" The man screamed repeatedly as he exchanged swipes with Connor. But his screams were not aimed at the assassin.

"What the hell are you doing, Gordon?" Patrice stumbling to his feet.

"Get out of here, old friend. I buy you time to escape and join up with the general!" Patrice tried to join Gordon in the fight but Gordon pushed him away.

"Damn it, Gordon. I will not leave you behind at their mercy!"

"The master and the Order need you, Deschain. I am just a footsoldier, expendable and replaceable. What difference will it make, if this bastard half-breed kills me now? But you are vital as air and water. Without you, his plans… our plans won't make a difference!"

"Gordon…" Patrice struggled as he prepared to turn away, towards the last remnants of the fleeing bluecoats.

"I can't hold him off for longer now. Go now! There are Templars other than I. Through them… carry my fire…"

Patrice reluctantly mounted the final horse and galloped away. Connor cursed as Gordon lunged at him, the battle preventing him from reaching the fleeing Templar in time. The only thing he could do now was shake out whatever he could from the grunt.

It ended quickly. Connor finally knocked the small knife from Gordon's palm and with a quick turn brought the blade into Gordon's abdomen and yanked it upwards.

Gordon stumbled towards a stump. He rested against it, his hand covering his wound stained with copious blood. He was losing a lot, quickly. His skin lost color, paler than the snow itself.

"Tell me of what Patrice and the general had planned, and I shall put you out of your suffering."

"Damn you, Assassin. I made a promise to never divulge our secrets to outsiders… and even at death's door step I shall not rescind my promise. Especially to you." Gordon lifted from his other boot heel a dagger. With a quick motion, he slit his own throat.

Connor pressed the dead man onto the snow-covered ground. Red snow mixed with white. Underneath his coat, above his white undershirt, there was a cross-pendant. What did it mean? Was what Patrice said true, that they had returned in full-force? But the Templar could've been bluffing. Perhaps they were just one of the remnant enclaves scattered across the country, unable to accomplish anything on a grand colonial-esque scale. He would have to call a meeting of all the branches when he returned to the Homestead.

He closed the still eyes of Gordon Chambers. He picked up his fallen tomahawk and strapped it back on.


	7. Sequence 1: Planning

Winter, 1793.

Following the confrontation at St. Clair's Defeat, the Assassin Branches throughout the country had worked in tandem to investigate the possibility of a renewed Templar threat. They infiltrated places of high esteem, stalked the decrepit common streets and roads, and observed the war against the natives in the Northwest.

Connor met with four of the branch leaders on the Homestead as 1793 breathed its dying gasps to make way for the long road that was to begin in 1794. His old recruits, alumni Clipper Wilkinson and Duncan Little. The "war woman" of Georgia, Nancy Morgan Hart. And the one whom he had appointed the same year he had dueled Patrice Deschain, Abraham Sallow the Virginian who managed Massachusetts. There was a small dinner held in the hall, but there was little enthusiasm to be had for the feasting. Everyone was focused on one thing alone: the Templars.

"You sent one of your contacts to the Northwest last year to tail a lead, Sallow. Yet you never spoke to any of us after your man returned from his mission. Did he find anything of note regarding the information we seek?" Connor asked Sallow.

Sallow sighed. "Yes, I did send one of my assassins, William de Saint-Prix, to the Northwest. He infiltrated the party of one of George Washington's emissaries to the Indians, a John Hardin, whom I remembered you requested we look into. As you thought, we had enough leads to suspect Hardin. Hardin was unaware of him the whole time, but outside forces intervened. They were ambushed by Shawnee in the middle of the night, William barely escaping with his life as his fellow travelers and Hardin were all killed. Shawnee seemed to have looted anything seemingly worth value after he returned to the site – there was no silver cross on Hardin, nothing to implicate him in Templar schemes. A complete damned dead end…"

"What of you, Little?"

"Found nothing except for a few overzealous bankers and merchants. All suspects too small in scale to signify anything meaningful."

Similar responses from the Virginian and the Georgian.

Connor went into the basement, came out carrying several paintings that he had the artisans on the Homestead commission in his spare time. Ever since Deborah died, there seemed to be less spare time. The responsibilities of the Assassins seemed to be sucking him back in, like a merchant ship desperately struggling to escape a whirlpool, unwilling to accept the futility of its plight. He even saw his own son less and less, the boy being raised through some of the Homestead residents instead of by him alone.

"We've found out enough in these short two years, enough to support evidence that yes, the Templars have gotten bold enough to attempt to influence events yet again. But the question we do not know yet is how strong they are. If it is the entire country on a federal scale or just an organized few." He showed them each of the portraits.

"Gordon Chambers. Insignificant footsoldier – died by my blades at St. Clair's Defeat. The only noteworthy attribute that I know of is that he had some sort of emotional connection to Patrice Deschain."

"John Hardin, nicknamed The Indian Killer. Military veteran, negotiator to the native tribes. Killed by a Shawnee ambush before we could extract any sort of information from him, secrets carried to his shallow grave that could have led us to the other Templars."

"Arthur St. Clair. He met with Patrice Deschain and Gordon Chambers on the day of his defeat. I was never able to question him as his two companions had distracted me long enough for him to make his escape. He was commander of the American army in the Northwest operations but Washington forced him to resign his position after his defeat. He remains a governor of the territory, and we shall keep our eyes on him despite his stripping of military power. However, none of us have been able to get close enough. He has holed up pretty well protected."

"This is his successor, Anthony Wayne, who is at work reforming the army into his so-called Legion of the United States. We do not know if Anthony Wayne is affiliated with the Templar Order, but seeing how many of the significant Templars that we have encountered since St. Clair's Defeat have been involved with the war effort, he is a viable suspect. Investigate him, send a few Assassins to infiltrate the American army."

"Does this mean that we are in support of the Western Confederacy, then? Like the 'ol Patriots and the Revolution." Sallow asked him as he peered down a beer glass.

"I would prefer to remain neutral in the conflict this time, but if the Templars are supporting the Americans, we may be forced to pick sides again. Send some aid if you must, but nothing on the scale of the Revolution. However, their choice to work against the tribes shows a worrying change in the management of the Order. My father and the Colonial Rite tried to aid the tribes, by manipulating events in an attempt to better protect them. But whoever is in charge now sees differently, willing as he is to displace them from their lands."

"Not much we can do for the Indians, my opinion. I doubt any of them would be willing to listen to a white man's, even a nigger's, advice. Most of the Indians we inducted are still undisciplined and impulsive – who knows what unpredictable catastrophes they will unleash in their quest to save their people? There used to be the one we called Silent Shadow, but no one has seen him ever since the Revolution ended." Hart chimed in.

"I see. And as most of you already know, our strongest lead in the hunt to uncover the Templar conspiracy. Patrice Deschain." Connor showed them all the portrait of Patrice, the man's debonair smile and neatly combed hair.

"What do we know of Patrice? Of all the Templars we have encountered since the death of Charles Lee, he has by far been the most powerful and cunning. A master swordsman, as I found out in our duel. He has the same traits that made my father such a lethal enemy – intelligence, charisma, and influence. His men are willing to throw their lives on the line for him. And he is smart enough to use their fanaticism to the Templar's advantage. I suspect that he may very well be the new Grand Master, or close enough to lead us to whoever it is."

"Perhaps me and Duncan can accompany you to wherever he is. I pop off all his friends from the rooftops with my trusty musket, Duncan can get the crowds worked up to distract the patrolmen, and you can rush in for an interrogation and kill just like the old times." Clipper's suggestion.

"I do not think it would be the best course of action to rush in with our guns blazing. I have learned full well from the past, thinking back on the killing of Hickey or Lee, the mistakes in my method. We need to gather more information before we can act. It is best that we know the whole picture so we can take it out in one fell swoop instead of a prolonged war."

"So what else do we know of this Patrice?" Sallow was trying to get the last droplet of whiskey from the mug into his lips, to no avail.

"Of his background, our spies have found out that he was born in Canada, the bastard son of a French prostitute and a Dutch merchant. He made his way down to American hardly transitioned from a boy to man shortly before the Revolution. It is believed he met one of the Templars close to Haytham, perhaps William Johnson or John Pitcairn, who introduced him to the Templars. He admires my father, speaks of him like the people speak of Washington. Patrice is obsessed with recreating the Rite my father built, perhaps we can use this obsession to further his downfall."

"So where is Patrice located?"

"He operates out of New York. I will travel there in a few weeks. To make consultations of the sort with the Assassin there… and I will find Patrice Deschain, and I will do what I can to force words out of him."

* * *

The wagon wheeled through the icy roads and frost-bitten fields towards New York City. Inside Connor spoke a few words with Abraham Sallow. Sallow was accompanying him on the ride. When they reached the branching point, Sallow would stay in the wagon and continue onwards to Boston. Connor would finish the remainder of the journey braving the cold on a horse.

"You don't have to do this, you know. Connor, you have suffered enough for one life. Losing both your parents, your people, your best friend… what else but the same awaits you if you continue down this path? Leave Patrice and the Templars to the rest of us. You've taught us well enough to make quick work of him and his lackeys, Connor."

"There is a storm brewing and I do not feel that is right that I take a step back into the shelter while my brothers in arms are forced to bear the full blunt of its wrath."

"Damn it, Connor! What about your son?" Sallow protested.

"Matthew? He will be fine. The Homesteaders will do a fine job of raising him when the Brotherhood requires that I be absent in his life."

"And do you don't think that this will have any repercussions for the boy? To grow up with his mother dead and his father isolated, with the explanation that his own father is too busy to ever see him. He's not just any orphan picked up from the street and tossed underneath some sheets – he's your own son, Connor."

"Sallow, we may be respected comrades, but what makes you think you own the right to dictate how I treat my family?"

"I say this as a friend, Connor. Ever since Carter died, you've started to change. You've been acting more callous, disinterested in anything not regarding the Order. None of us know how to help you… you've constructed a wall to shield everything that could turn you away from your needless continuation as our Mentor and towards a happy private retired life. Even your own son, Connor. You're going to damage his childhood in exchange for the victory of the Assassins."

"And what would you have me do, Sallow? To sit back and watch while my friends die from Templar steel and bullets? You think that I would turn my head away when the Assassins could very well soon run the risk of another complete annihilation by the hands of the enemy? No, Sallow, I will not. I made a promise to my people… and I will not forsake them when they may very well face a time where we must all pitch in our lots."

The rest of the trip was in unbearable, hostile silence.


	8. Sequence 1: Confronting Deschain

Another miserable winter's day, Patrice Deschain thought. Snow blanketed every cobblestone and tiled roof of New York City, a strong merciless breeze bearing down upon the hapless inhabitants whose only defense was to stay inside or wear extra. He thought that by now he would have gotten used to the cold after all these years alive, after all, hadn't he grown up in the pitiless alleyways of Montreal before he made his way south? But each consecutive winter was like a dagger sliding into his flesh, rendering him like a newborn babe. And to mention the summers as well…. he wouldn't dare. Bastards had insisted upon a meeting starting in the market… a damn walk through this frozen anti-wonderland.

Buckling under the relentless airstream, his scarves fluttered like migrating geese and he coughed bitterly. What an irony would it be for him to survive the Assassin Mentor, only to fall to the ill-intents of Mother Nature. He thought back to Gordon's sacrifice, and clenched his fists. Connor would pay for his folly in due time, and all the good men like Kenway, Pitcairn, and Johnson who had fallen by his blades would be avenged at last. They knew where the Homestead was… its terrain and defenses, the strength of its fighting force. What stopped them from finishing what Charles Lee had set out to do? Hamilton insisted that they do not overstep the boundaries of their power, that as citizens of the United States they ought to honor the Constitution they had helped draft.

Emerging from an alleyway onto one of the streets, Patrice Deschain paused briefly. He thought he heard the rustling of a branch. The falling of snow upon frozen ground. The shattering of an icicle as it broke from its moor. He turned around, looking back the way he had come. There was nothing. Just a damn emaciated hog rustling around in icy mud and unkempt piles of hay next to large brown wood fences. Shaking his head, he continued on his walk towards the market. At least the weather will have restrained the damn odor of fish until spring returns. He prayed for the day where Hamilton's vision of an industrial America would come to fruition as he thought of the whiff.

Behind the fence, near the tree that he had leapt onto from the rooftop, and the hay where he had landed, Connor peeked a sliver. He let out a breath, visible in the wintry air. His heartbeat returned to a normal rate. His hood had been pulled down. He adjusted it to remedy that, the beak hanging over his hair. He was not carrying most of his equipment. The tomahawk and bow had been left behind at the Homestead. He had left his pistols at the Assassin headquarters. All he had on him were the hidden blades and a bit of parlor tricks. Animal bait, smoke bombs, stun darts, and trip mines. If he was to get into a serious fight… well, he would have to improvise, wouldn't he?

Connor tailed Patrice, remaining well out of the man's cone of perception but close enough for hearing range. He mingled with the crowd, few of the miserable cold men and women huddling close paying any sort of prolonged attention to the hardened face underneath the white hood. Someone had joined Patrice, a brown-haired woman. She was slightly shorter than he, and dressed fancier than the rest of the people in the streets. She gazed upon them with an aura of arrogant pity. Spoke to him, accent English.

"You look pitiful, Patrice. Would it have killed you to dress warmer, fancier for the meeting?"

"Never is too wise of an idea to strut down any American street dressed like a baron, given the aristocracy from which they split and the current societal divisions. And in order to rope the behind the veil cast by the Rite for which we represent, we must find ways to appeal to them… even if it does mean you will have to hang up your favorite lady-dresses, if you have any. Hmph… I had never expected to not see you dressed up like a man, Ms. Mallow."

"No use for the old redcoat these days, unless I can find a tailor willing to dye it blue without giving me suspicious stares or accusations. A sad lot, all these high-strung democracy-spitting Americans unwilling to let go of their grudge against the king's soldier and loyal subjects. Not much I can do besides shift through papers and pass the time trying to learn how to knit, especially with my father long buried, some thanks given to you, Patrice."

"I thought you would be thanking me, Ms. Mallow. And as a loyal man to the Order, it would have been obvious who I would save when picked between an old bull reaching the end of his usefulness or a youthful, zealous lass with much years of use ahead of her, much good that could be done for the Order."

"You speak of us in terms of expendability, do you not?"

"As Templars, we must be prepared to make sacrifices of things on the scale of individuality for the greater good… it is what sets us apart from them, what makes it possible for our goals to ultimately be accomplished while they are destined to spend the rest of time chasing butterflies. And do not dare think for a moment that these choices are easy for me to make. I could have saved Gordon, but he was right. The Order needed me, and I could not risk my life against an evenly matched opponent."

"I do suppose that the others shall be joining us soon? I cannot stand the cold, and ooh, the street filth who stare at every curve and crevice of my figure."

"They wait for me in the market…. but I think, as we are suffering right now in the cold, it would only be fair to prolong theirs as well. And if we are being tailed, which is likely as they have ears and eyes everywhere, then double the fortune."

Connor silently sighed as he heard this.

* * *

The group of Templars he had eavesdropped on as he stalked them across New York's rooftops and dark corners was at last dispersing. To Connor's regret, nothing real substantial seemed to have come of it. Patrice seemed just as ambiguous in dealing with fellow Templars as he had been when Connor questioned him at St. Clair's Defeat. There had only been scattered names and places dropped in their conversation, nothing about the ringleader that had been divulged. But on the plus side, at least he did know of a few new potential targets. The Templar in the red coat with the round-frame glasses and hair-rolls was Patrick Henry of Virginia. He had mentioned plans involving a slave named Gabriel. The Templar from Connecticut was Samuel Huntington, accompanied by an Oliver Wolcott. A double-chinned man, hair white and curled at the sides, named James Wilson. The last Templar was named William Carmichael, who had mentioned to Patrice something regarding Spain.

What was worrying was that all of these Templars aside from Patrice and the woman held positions within the government. If the Templars had infiltrated Congress, or if they had converted a great deal of its populace to their side… he didn't dare think of the power of the enemy that the Assassins would face. All that was left now was to tail Patrice, and force everything that he could out of the Templar at last.

"Well, aren't they are bright and cheerful bunch." The woman remarked sarcastically. Connor hid in the crowd gathered around a fruit peddler's stand, the fruit peddler looking suspiciously at Connor, asking in foul breath if he wanted a free sample.

"Never did like Patrick, truth be told. A blasted anti-federalists, opposed to everything that threatened the individual, when I first met him. Feared he would never be turned to see the light of our cause, that he would eventually drift to their wings. But lo and behold, the French Revolution had all of them rich, powerful planters such as Pat Henry scared and searching for some sort of security as kings went without head and the streets of Paris flowed with noble blood. Uptight irritating bastard, to the end, however. If he hates this New York weather so much, I say he very well shut up and stay in Virginia."

"I might as well go prepare for my assignment, then. It will be a refreshing change of scenery, to get away from these ailing masses to the richer districts of this city."

"Ah, but before you do go to seduce and manipulate our merchant friends, I was wondering if I might have the pleasure of hosting you for dinner tonight at my residence, Ms. Mallow? My indentured work are all foreign and not the most hospitable or English-speaking, but they are some damn fine cooks. We both have done so much for each other, and I feel that I can at last thank you for your end."

She spat on his shoe in response.

"Sorry Patrice, but I'd rather dine naked in a horse stable with mud-covered swine than you."

Patrice shook his head, muttering as he walked the opposite direction away from her. Connor remembered this path. It led to Fort George, where he had killed his father. The Templars were still using it in some measure, apparently.

He tailed Patrice until it grew dark.

* * *

Connor crouched in the shadows of the alley, gazing at the fort entrance. Patrice had gone in about a half hour ago. Connor looked for a way to infiltrate the fort, a way to bypass the two burly sentries placed at the gates. The old trick of hiding in the back of a wagon was out. Each hunk of wood that rattled past the fort's gates was rigorously checked. Perhaps someone had been expecting an Assassin surprise tonight. He was in no shape to rush in and kill everybody before interrogating Patrice, and even if he had been properly equipped, those days of his reckless youth in the Assassins he preferred to leave in the past rather than emulate.

Perhaps call for some help from the local assassins? That was the safest, sure-fire-to-succeed option, but who knew how long it would take him to find them and then return? By then, Patrice would likely have made well his leave, and even with his gift of special sight, Connor doubted it would be that easy to relocate him.

Then he heard a small meowing by his boots. A tiny stripped kitten was licking his heels. It purred as he picked it up and stroked its chin. He smiled as a raw idea started to formulate in his head.

Moments later, the guards up front heard a rustling in the bushes nearby. Grabbing their muskets, they barked and circled the bush. Before they could shoot what they perceived to be an invading Assassin, the kitten meowed and crawled out of the bushes. It stared confused at the guards, whose grim complexion changed instantly. One of them bent to pick it up, patting it gently on its head.

"Aren't cats great, Penn? Here, have a pat!"

"Are you bloody daft, John? Have you smoked too much pipe prior to our shift again? I am allergic, their fur gives me quite an awful case of the hives and red eye! Begone with that foul beast!"

"Cats aren't foul! They are by far the most majestic, adorable four-legged critters put on this globe by the Precursors, even moreso than the lass at the pub down the street willing to spread her legs open for anyone. It is just a coincidence that my cat happened to be in the room when you and your mother dined at my lodge! Preposterous, that you pin your own freak disorders on our fine feline friends! Clearly, you are too blinded by your misguided rage directed wrongly at cats to see the true culprit – your mother's cooking!"

"You dare admonish my mother's excellent culinary talents, slander her as the bringer of my allergies? It is not! For every time I ate her food and broke out with the skin complaints later, a cat was always nearby! Therefore, the cats must be responsible!"

"My, my, Penn, if the Assassins did not threaten our lives at this very moment I would ram my musket so very far up your arse right this instant to protect the repute of man's true best friend!"

As the two guards argued back and forth, a shadowy figure leapt from the rooftop to rooftop until he was clambering along the edge of the fortress walls. A sniper, bending over the edge to look at the arguing pair, suddenly felt a strong hand grab him from behind. Muffled, he was quickly strangled into unconsciousness. Connor looked down at the cataleptic guard, and quickly stripped him of his uniform. Pulling his hood down, Connor placed the man's tipped hat on his head. He pulled the man's large coat over his Assassin robes. Now, to an extent, he could move about the fort freely and unchallenged unless someone took a real close look at him. Stepping down the stairs to the main grounds, he activated his second sight. Eagle vision, the embittered Achilles had slipped to him once during his training but the man had never bothered to elaborate to him what it was. As the world around him turned dark, certain objects became highlighted. Places of shelter, persons of interest, etc. And on the black ground in front of him, he saw a glistening red trail. It led to the building at the far end of the fort. He saw a bleak, translucent outline of Patrice walk towards the main door and disintegrate. Connor quickly walked towards the building, at a pace that wouldn't tip off the actual guards. Inside the building, he saw the red trail lead to the door in the middle of the hallway on the second floor. Remembering its location, he walked back outside. If he barged in from the front, the alarm would no doubt be raised. He would climb the building from the back, slip in through the window, surprise Patrice and interrogate him before killing the Templar, then escape from the fort before anyone was aware from had hit them.

There were two more sentinels in the back, leaning over the edge. Two quick darts made short work of them. He tossed them on top of another in a nearby shed. He then grabbed a hold of a ridge on the building, and scaled his way upwards. Locating what he remembered as the location of Patrice's office, he sneakily unlocked the window and slipped inside. He moved quickly towards the desk, popping out his knife as he prepared to snatch Patrice by the shoulder… only to see that the seat was empty.

"Ahem…" Followed by the cocking of a pistol. Patrice stood near a bookcase in the corner, leaning his back against the wall. "For all that meticulous planning, you do leave quite a few backdoors open. I was aware of your presence by the time I parted with Ms. Mallow."

"Patrice Deschain… tell me everything I wish to know and I will make sure that your death is dignified." Connor glared as Patrice kept the pistol pointed between his two eyes.

"I don't believe you are in quite a position to negotiate. You see, you made quite the mistake of bringing just a couple of tiny knives and an amateur magician's play set for protection into one of the nation's most highly concentrated Templar strongholds. So no, I won't tell you what our plans for the nation are. I won't tell you who are Grand Master is. You can try to fight me, but my finger is quite steady and able with triggers and the shot I'm afraid will make every guard aware that an Assassin is running loose. And even if you do somehow disarm me before the shot…" Patrice waved up his other arm, showing a bracer. It was a crude hidden blade, spring loaded – primitive compared to Haytham's and Connor's. "I'm afraid that I haven't had the best of luck finding dead Assassins to loot the real blades off of, but I assure you, this self-engineered replica works dandy enough to ensure that if you rush me, you will end up on the floor with blood flowing from your neck."

"So what you will do, Patrice?" Connor looked around the room, something he could use to his advantage without alarming the entire fort.

"Well for starters, I will have you remove that paltry disguise. Quite embarrassing, how you crossed the entirety of the grounds without every lookout filling you full of rifle fire. I will have to find some fresh talent, after I deal with you…"

"You keep saying that, yet you haven't pulled the trigger." Connor commented as he tossed the guard's hat to the side.

"It is not the easiest thing for me to do, to kill someone defenseless. Even when it's the cold-hearted bastard that murdered your best friend and protégé standing right in front you. I have done it only once, in the name of mercy. And I have never recovered… and do you know why I never have? One part is that I find it truly dishonorable… the other…" Patrice's stony expression softened. He blinked at Connor. The coldness in his face returned.

"What do savage half-breeds and displaced whoresons have in common?"

Connor grimly nodded silently to Patrice Deschain. He thought back to the death of his own. The burning huts, his attempts to save her as the world around him collapsed. Some nights he still wished that he had perished in the flames with her that day, that in the world beyond they would live together forever. But those nights had become less and less, especially after the vision of the other world he saw when he touched Washington's Apple and Deborah's death. There was just a space of emptiness. But still, he found some pitying sympathy in their commonality. But not a lot… Achilles had warned him that the worst mistake to make in a time of war is to find yourself in the enemy… and that was a mistake he would never make again.

"We have both lost those so very dear to us, Patrice. But I also killed your friend and the Templars that you admired. As an act of pity, I will make it easier for you. Think of this as revenge, not an execution." Connor told him coldly.

Patrice looked troubled, unable to decide what to do. He wanted to kill Connor certainly, but not in this sort of way.

"I will not orphan a child, not like this."

"What?" This time it was his turn to be shocked. How could this have happened?

"Why do you think we haven't sent Wayne and the Legion towards the Homestead to raze to the last scrap of wood? True, the Indians in the Northwest preoccupy them currently but the tide is quickly turning. Little Turtle is already writing letters of negotiation, I am told. And with the Indians out of the way, another phase of our plans can be completed… but going back to my point, I may be a so-called ruthless and monstrous Templar but I have my limits…"

"Are you trying to use my son against me?" Connor snarled at Patrice.

"I am surprised that you care so much about him... considering that you spend virtually no time with him in favor of helping your Brotherhood and hunting us down these days. No Connor, I am offering you a chance. Run home, be a family man and forget this life. After all, there has to be a part of you that's sick of the loss and suffering. Why do you still take it, Connor? Are you nothing but an embittered masochist? Do you think that I will continue to drain my energy away working for a higher cause for the rest of my years? Do you think your cronies like Abraham Sallow will continue to do so? No Connor, I wish to one day settle down when I feel it's finally over and start a family that will be free of this sort of life. There are already several promising conquests in the making such as Ms. Mallow whom I am sure that you must have noticed when tailing me. So why don't you do the same, Connor? You never joined the Assassins out of pure reasons regarding freedom and enlightenment; you were just an angry boy face masked with denial trying to save his people and when that failed all that motivated you was superficial revenge instead of your little Creed."

"The road ahead is long and shrouded in darkness, and I know it is not one that we are guaranteed to see end. But the Assassins will never give up, even at eradication's door-step and the dimming of civilization's lights and neither shall I."

"I see, how unfortunate. You read too much Ezio Auditore in your spare time. All stubborn to the bitter end…" There was a shout, muffled in the distance. "I assume that is a diligent guard who has just discovered your handiwork. They'll be on their way soon enough, and I will have them cargo you up and ship you to Philadelphia as a dying request before your execution. After all, you do want to meet the Grand Master very badly. A pity about your son though, I do not want any child even one of the enemy to grow up without a par-" Connor tackled him. Patrice grunted as Connor threw him into the bookcases scattering tomes everywhere. Patrice tried to aim his pistol but Connor slapped the gun from his hands.

"You damn savage! I offer you hospitality and mercy where my comrades would have killed and this how you repay me!" Patrice struggled to his feet and leapt at Connor. Springing his blade out of the bracer, Patrice leapt at Connor only to be stopped as Connor grabbed and held him back. Flipping Patrice, the Templar went flying just as the door opened into several surprised guards. The contingent went tumbling, like a game of nine-pins.

Eyeing the desk, Connor snatched several papers from its surface knocking over a vial of ink as he did so. As he clambered out of the window, he heard Patrice scream for his men to retrieve the documents. Huffing, Connor hoisted himself onto the rooftop. Snipers were shouting now, officers were readying fire orders. Already, he leapt forward to avoid a volley of shrapnel. Fleeing across the New York roofs, he crammed the sheets and envelopes into his coat pocket while knocking away watchmen charging at him with their blades. He leapt off the rim, landing in a bale of hay. One of his pursuers was not as lucky, a sick noise like wet fruit being smashed as his face crumpled and red blossomed out below him. Connor snatched a musket from a nearby rack and flung it at a man with a pistol rushing him on a horse. As the man fell, Connor snatched the reins of the steed and steadied himself. Galloping out of the fort, he passed a man who looked like he had been killed in a violent scuffle. A bayonet had been shaved somewhere painful. A kitten was nearby, lapping up the blood of the man. There was the sound of galloping after him, yelling and gunshots. Civilians screamed and dove for cover as the man in the hood on the horse sped through the streets of New York, local militia and Templar in hot pursuit.

He eyed a hanging sign for a pub up ahead. Leaping from his steed, he did a backflip onto the sign and leapt from post to post until he found a ramp to access the rooftops. As he did so, he managed to drop a smoke bomb and a small fizzing noise leaked. Some of the Templars sped by on their horses, awed. Some of the militias hastily dismounted. At the same moment, the bomb exploded, causing a collision and a jumble of equine and human weight. Still, some were resilient enough and they continued after him. Connor sprinted, leaping from building to building. He missed his leap on one jump, and fell hitting side to side. Rolling, he stumbled to his feet and pushed his way through the gathering crowd. He dropped many coins at his feet. Some hecklers saw the precious metals and frenzy ensued as all the vagrants convened. Screams pierced the night air as some Templars were trampled underneath the mob.

One Templar pushed his way through the crowd, having been bloodied and bruised by biting and kicking as the beggars had snatched at the money. He screamed for someone to stop Connor as he lunged forward, and then heard a small click. He looked down at his feet and saw his shoes covering the top of something metallic and round.

The Templar behind him scattered into pieces, the crowd shocked by the blood and bits out of their monetary stupor and dispersed. The survivors looked up, to see Connor bound into an open window. They would never catch up to him now…

Things hadn't gone exactly the way he had hoped, but with any due luck, Connor had found what he was looking for.


	9. Sequence 1: Whiskey Country

**I understand that it has been a long time since I last posted a chapter. Why the delay? Two reasons. One, I was very busy, with exams being tossed at me left and right. There was little time to concentrate on writing this chapter, even though I was still outlining it in my head daily. Two, the hard drive with the rough draft of the original version of this chapter was compromised, forcing me to restart. **

**Hopefully no more delays in this manner shall happen!**

* * *

July

A blunt tap at the door. The President was seated at his desk and penning a letter, did not look up as he said "Come in, Mr. Hamilton."

"Ah, George. After working as your aide all these years, I thought that you would be ready to address me on a first-name basis." Alexander Hamilton, dressed in a green suit and yellow vest, slightly tipped his head to the commander-in-chief.

"Pardon me, Mr. Hamilton, but I am at a very critical moment as of now. If you do not have anything but petty complaints to share, I do suggest you leave me be and trouble John instead." Washington stood up, facing his secretary of the treasury. The tall Virginian towered over the shorter man, a bastard who had wormed his way up to the East Coast from the West Indies and have made his way through the political hierarchy.

"The negotiations with the backcountry folk failed, I presume?" Washington nodded, looking at his window at the Philadelphian surroundings.

"I am not sure what to do, Mr. Hamilton. I wish to resolve this crisis without firing a shot, and yet these damned countrymen of ours prove to be so stubborn in their avoidance of your tax. Diplomacy is failing us, and this worries me."

"George, if I may make a suggestion, there is one option that you appear to have overlooked. Sure, we might have sent some miniscule units already but the full force of the army lines untapped…"

"Mr. Hamilton, although we both agree that this agitators of civic unrest must be dealt with swiftly, a full-on militia intervention might send the public the wrong sort of message. Thomas and his fellow Democrat-Republicans threaten our party's dominance enough already as the situation stands. We mustn't alienate the public, Mr. Hamilton. They might think us as tyrants."

"And are we to fiddle our thumbs once more until the rebellion is right upon our doorstep, George? You know full well what our party stands for. We are not tyrants as these rebels slander us, we merely seek a limited yet just government that will sail our republican experiment well past the centuries. These fools can only see the present day, the short-term implications of circumstances too large for them to judge. And besides George, you always did look the striking fellow in that uniform of yours, riding atop one of your horses. Little wonder that the men loved you as they did during those days. It is imperative that we raise the army now."

"I will need some moments alone to myself, to think what you are proposing over. To put down their insurrection with the most brute displays of suppression, it might be political suicide for both of us."

"I have many powerful friends, George. They can help us… all you need to do is ask me to contact them." Alexander Hamilton turned with a faint smile in his lips towards the door.

"Perhaps… but I would rather hang and see this country thrown back to the British if your schemes for the future lead us astray from the path of liberty and justice for all. I know just what sort of folk your friends are, Hamilton. I have met men like them before, during the Seven Years War and the Revolution." Washington warned him.

"I trust that you will do what is right, George. May the father of understanding guide you." Hamilton left the President to ponder those last few words.

* * *

The last days of Fall

Connor hunched over a small table, scribbling a letter to no one. Winter was dawning, the slumbering beast opening its jaws in anticipation for the coming host of prey. He had returned to the Homestead, back from his endeavor into the Pennsylvania backcountry. Matthew, his son, had prepared for him a small stencil drawing of himself. Crude, round shapes assembled and contorted into a shape vaguely resembling something human, wielding something that looked like a trampled, mangled tomahawk. Connor had smiled at his son, told him that he did a good job and that he was eager to see what he would draw next. But even the kid, still at an impressionable age, didn't seem to take his father's words for truth. Unsure of what to say next to the boy, Connor bent down, facing his son on an eye to eye level. He would see Matthew again at dinner, but he was very busy at the moment. There was an urgent letter he needed to write. Why don't you go visit Warren and Prudence's farm? I am sure that you will have a good time there, with the animals. The boy reluctantly nodded and bounded towards the farm, all the while cautiously looking back at this father.

Why was he writing this letter? He had already sent all messengers and letters that were needed to their respective destinations across the country. Give or take, in a few weeks or months all would have arrived and the Assassins would already be making their next move in this treacherous chess game. But Connor felt conflicted, flayed apart like yarn being dismantled into itty bitty threads. His duty called to him… what he had seen in Pennsylvania confirmed that the Templar homecoming was stronger than he had anticipated. The Order of his father's days had never infiltrated the American governmental hierarchy so highly… Church a corrupt surgeon general, Lee a court-martialed general, and Hickey… well Hickey was Hickey. Nicholas Biddle had been the only esteemed of the lot he had killed back during the Revolution… and even so he was nowhere in scope compared to whom he had just witnessed.

The Assassins needed him, their leader, to guide them through the coming war. There were many that needed to be eliminated from the equation. But home called to him… the home that he had built and the home that he had fathered. What would become of it? He knew that he was neglecting his son in favor of the Assassins, the truth of the Templar he had confronted in New York resounding. But he could not step down… he made a promise to his people.

And so, he wrote to the only person he had known who had given him guidance, who had endured his rashness and young flares of passion. The one who had tolerated his astounding naivety, who grew to love him as his own son. The man had had been like a father to him when he was at odds with his true biological predecessor.

_Dear Achilles,_

_It has been a while since I have spoken to you, old man. I hope wherever you are, that you have seen what has become of the Homestead and the nation at large. Are you proud of what both have grown into? Our trade is thriving, although with the situation in Europe between the quarreling French and British, there has been report of near seizures in the West Indies. Regrettable that the waters there have grown chaotic, seeing how there is little other place willing to buy bear furs at the price they do. If the situation does get bad enough, I may very well be forced to take the Aquila out of retirement. Faulkner is surely at his last days by now, but he has always been a stubborn first mate. I have no doubt that he would be eager to hit the open seas on one final voyage. The others likewise are happy. Myriam and Norris have retreated into their forest cabin, occasionally venturing into town to do business. The children of the lumberjacks have grown quickly, some of them already taking over the work of their fathers. Dr. White is as busy as ever, it seems that there is always at least one sailor or trader getting drunk in the inn. Ellen and her daughter are doing fine as well, their old husband has not showed hide nor hair since the day we beat him off. I sometimes speak to them, they are both very hospitable. Occasionally I will attend Timothy's services. Although I cannot say that I agree with the words presented in their book, knowing what has been written in our annals of the carpenter who fed thousands with a few loaves or the old Hebrew who parted the seas, it does make for some interesting philosophy regarding humanity. The size of the Homestead seems to be growing, since your passing the town has increased by a third, perhaps a half its size. There are constantly new faces flowing in, many I regrettably have not had the pleasure of meeting personally yet. Our flag flies proud alongside the flag of the Americans. _

_I am sure that you must be proudest of what the toil of I and others has produced, a growing new American Brotherhood. I have stepped in as their mentor, offering my blade and guidance. Teaching to them the lessons that you taught me. I am certain that it was what you would have wanted of me, old man. For the first few years, it seemed like walking tranquility. Our enemies vanquished, the nation free for us to guide. With experience gained from the tragedy that we all suffered during the Revolution… we would be able to extend our branches to those who we knew would do what was right, not just assumptions such as Washington and the rest of his kin. _

_But that was merely another veil covering many more, and it was lifted during the most inopportune moment. I hoped that they were just remnants, too small to make a dent towards the goals of the Assassins in America and easily dealt with. But it seems that they have bred like rabbits, culling from the populace many eager recruits as we have. I saw them first intervene in the conflicts between the settlers and natives in the Ohio territory, and in grave contrast to my father, it seems like they have little love to spare to the ancestral owners of this earth. At first, I thought that it might be possible for the natives to win their war. After all, they had utterly decimated the Americans in multiple engagements. But I underestimated the might of the Templars. Through their man, General Wayne and his Legion of the United States, my blood cousins were crushed like insects by the Templar might. We suffered as well, losing our Northwest headquarters to a Templar raid. Some of my brothers fled to the sanctity of Montreal, while others laid low and picked up whatever pieces remained. We have yet to do something about Wayne, but I have one of my men, an Abraham Sallow, working on the case. _

_Too late to do anything about the Northwest, I turned my attention to finding the head of the new Templar rite, so that I could sever it. I pursued one of my leads in New York, a high-ranking Templar named Patrice Deschain and managed to abscond with several bundles of their paperwork. Mixed in were some of Patrice's more personal writings, but I know that it is not something you'd wish to hear precious time wasted upon. What came up the most in those letters was the whiskey tax, passed by the government a couple of years back. Sensing my next clue within the ink, I decided to take a trip to Pennsylvania, the heart of the issue. _

_Accompanying me were my old recruits, Clipper Wilkinson and Duncan Little. I had invited Abraham Sallow, but he promptly declined. To get to Pennsylvania he'd have to cross through New York, and as a former plantation man of the South, he told me that for personal reasons the slavery-condoning New York was far too close to old memories. We met with another of our kin in Pennsylvania, Hugh Henry Brackenridge. He explained to us that the situation was getting worse, the backcountry enveloped in a state of near anarchy. A veteran revolutionary had been murdered by US troops sent to aid federal officials, letters had been discovered by anti-tax rebels robbing the mail system that condemned them. It appeared that many Assassins who supported the people's desires were acting beyond their jurisdiction, aiding the rebels directly. _

_We gathered at Braddock's Field on August 1__st__, plains outside of the city Pittsburgh. The size of the crowd awed me. Not since Evacuation Day have there been so many individuals threaded together by a common agitation in a single place. But when speakers, so-called ringleaders of the Whiskey Rebels, took stage and began to preach, I could feel my heart sink. The bloodlust of the crowd as a man called David Bradford urged that they attack Fort Lafayette and raze Pittsburgh, which he described as a Sodom. He swore to bring the guillotine to America, and he compared himself to that tyrant Robespierre. And worst of all, they spoke of secession. Of splitting off on their own, joining forces with the European powers as their individual nation. The irony was not lost on me. They fought so hard for their independence from Great Britain, and yet here they were talking about reuniting with the Crown simply because they were displeased with how the new government was running things. It seems that what you said about nations, how they would grow fragile and harder to protect with time was true. Perhaps I have found the grudging moment to admit that perhaps Father was right about them, that they would degrade into arguing once the union of war had dissolved. I wonder if the same would happen to my Brotherhood. I wanted to agree with the rebels, but the way they wished to accomplish their goals through blood… it was just reprehensible. There must be better ways to bring about change. _

_And eventually, those rebels were bound to clash with the greatest authority of them all. And when that day came, I finally found him. The Templar that I was searching for._

* * *

October

"Look at 'em flee. Like a pack of rabbits, they are." Clipper commented as the last of the rebels dispersed. Connor silently nodded, staring through his telescope at the oncoming army. It was truly a sight… nowhere in the Revolution had he seen such a mass of fighting men. 13,000 men from four states, one of their informants had told them, larger than even Valley Forge. The rebels, for all their talk of looting and burning, all seemed to simultaneously let loose their internals and flee back the direction they came in search of sanctity once they saw the vast militia.

And there was a face at the front of the marching troops, riding atop a white horse, that Connor recognized instantly. They had crossed the Delaware to capture the Hessians at Trenton together, huddled in the limited warmth of Valley Forge in bitter wintertime, and had played a cold game of bocce in New York after the war. The man at times had been his ally, but never anything resembling a friend. And with the current situation as it appeared… it seem that Washington very well may have become part of the enemy. Connor scanned further past Washington, towards the contingent of riders following him. Most of them wore the regalia of officers, but there seemed to be an odd man out of that bunch. He was dressed in an unfitting brown suit with a youthful appearance, his hair uncovered. He had recalled seeing the man someplace before… amongst the many faces that had been present at the signing of their so-called independence.

"Who is that, Duncan?"

"You don't know him? That's Alexander Hamilton in the flesh, father of the bank."

Connor frowned. What was a financier doing out here, riding with the President who was dressed up like it was wartime all over again and a grossly hefty army? Sensing that it was time to use his special vision again, Connor turned the world dark. To his surprise, Washington was not in red as he had expected the commander to be. A neutral shade of blue, along with most of the soldiers. But Hamilton was different… he stuck out like a gold firecracker.

"I am certain of it, that is the man that we have searching for."

"Let me take a crack, Connor. A good shot or two should take both the Templar and Washington down."

"No, Clipper. Hold your rifle. Let them go."

"Connor, have you gone insane? The Templar Grand Master within our sights… and with due luck we can take out his puppet too."

"And what do you think will happen, Clipper, if we murder the President and one of his aides in front of an army that big? They will blame the people living in the countryside for this, the repercussions will be unimaginable. Washington is too big for the people to take his death lightly, and do you suppose that the fellow Templars will hide in the shadows when their leader has been neutralized? They might very well reveal the existence of our Brotherhood to a vengeful public. We cannot afford to compromise the Order for a quick-term solution. We will have to eliminate Hamilton through other means… we will have to become puppet masters like the Templars, manipulate the Templar out of his position of power."

"Connor, I think you have a look at this."

Connor peered through the telescope. Washington was looking in their direction, with a telescope of their own. Surely he must have noticed Clipper's rifle pointed at them right now, seeing that surprised look crossing his face. He motioned a detachment and some riders to his side. Washington spoke some orders to the troops, pointing in their direction.

"We should make haste now. We will make our separate ways and meet in Pittsburgh later. Until then…. hah!" Connor spurred his steed and galloped off as Washington's men scurried up the hill towards them.

* * *

_There is something I have yet to bring up, Achilles. Since your passing and the end of the first war… something miraculous has happened that I had not anticipated coming so soon. I was reluctant initially, as it was true that I did not have feelings for that woman the way yours must have. To this day, I am suspicious that not even she was truly earnest about it but I was affected by her recent passing nonetheless. Your perspective does change when you sire a child, Achilles, and perhaps the experience of it and the knowledge of your past… it helps me to understand your bitterness and regret my hot-headedness even more. _

_Damn the Templars, Achilles. Writing this letter, I am torn. Part of me wishes to fight to the bitter end, to annihilate their presence from these lands once more. But the other part of me wishes to lay my duties to the Creed to rest at last, to spare myself the suffering that is sure to follow if I continue on this path. I fear that I have been neglecting my son for far too long. I know what it is like to grow up without a father, and I do not wish for it to repeat. My own father once wrote of Edward Kenway as the only man that never lied to him, that didn't weave him into a web of treachery and lies. If I continue on this path, appearing only in fragmented days of young Matthew's life, will he be able to say the same of I? I wish for nothing more than this fighting to end, for a lasting peace. Now, I have a purpose beyond this ancient war. There is hope that the future represents… perhaps with Matthew we will be able to succeed where I and my fathers have failed. But he needs a father to guide him… to show him the folly of such things as obsession and vengeance so he does not repeat the mistakes that I made. _

_Yet I cannot leave behind the Assassins just yet. Our enemy is strong, and the list of conspirators grows each day. There are targets to dissuade, targets to eliminate. But for my son, I hope that we end this swiftly. I shall retire when that happens, take my rest and let one of my capable protégés inherit the mantle of Mentor. We have no father of understanding to guide us like they do, but I pray to the spirits that we shall do what is right._

_Yours in brotherhood,_

_Connor  
_Connor folded the parchment in three, and sealed an envelope. He walked outside, to a grave overlooking the hill. Smiling, he set the letter in front of the tombstone.


	10. Sequence 1: Monticello

New York City, December 1794

Screaming, the flailing ragdoll of a man sailed through the air until he smashed against the cold stone wall. He reached for a pistol only for a brown boot to kick it out of his grasp. The boot clamped down on his wrist, and a crunching noise followed by a cacophony of screams pierced the setting serenity. Clawing at what remained of his forearm, the man cursed the Assassin towering over him. A few curious heads poked out of the nearby printshop, but an accomplice reached into a sack for a parcel of money and handed it to the printers. They turned their heads away, and there was nothing unexpected in the news tomorrow. The Assassin grabbed the man's collar, slamming him against the wall, dragging him up until their eyes met.

"Never the wisest of moves to pull a knife on a man who just wishes to have a brief conversation."

"Alright, alright, you win… stinking savage." He fumed the last bit under his breath. "But you'll have to earn th- ack!" A shining blade slid out of the Assassin's right bracer, and he pressed it firmly against the man's throat, drawing a tiny droplet of blood.

"You are in no position to negotiate. But go ahead, try my patience."

"N-n-no need to p-play th-things so rough… P-Put away the knife and I will tell you ev-eve-erything you need to know." Connor, hearing this, heaved the trembling mess that was James Reynolds onto the hard stones that cobbled the streets. A small splatter of blood spread as the man's forehead hit the pebbles.

"So talk, then. You have information on a man that I am seeking to shame… an Alexander Hamilton."

"It started three years ago… my wife was in Philadelphia and she met Hamilton. Asked him for some change so she could buy her way back to New York. Whoreson banker delivered the money personally that night. Next couple of years the two started to meet together, doing their dirty business right under me nose. But I'm perceptive, didn't take me long to catch on."

"Why didn't you expose Hamilton then?" Connor demanded.

"Heh… y'see, I was used to be a Commissary officer but over the course of the war I angered a few folks and acquired my share of debts. And along comes Hamilton, a hotshot with everything to lose if news of his illicit side activities ever came to light. I needed money, money which he had. Made over a thousand dollars blackmailing him, but still wasn't enough to buy my way out of my other troubles."

"Is there any evidence of Hamilton's affair, other than your word? For I doubt that the words of a petty con man like yourself are good enough to accomplish what I want." Connor stood over the bleeding Reynolds, his eyes dark.

"Yes… yes… I gambled and tried to bring Hamilton's promiscuity to the attention of Congress. I figured that if he didn't get me out of my troubles, at least he would be sunk by the ensuing investigation. James Monroe…Hamilton gave him the letters detailing everything!"

"And where are those letters now?" Connor demanded.

"After he returned from France in 1793, Thomas Jefferson got Monroe to hand him the letters. That's all I know now… everything else you need rests at Monticello. I've told you everything savage, let me go." He cried.

"So I shall."

Connor solemnly nodded and whistled. Four Assassin recruits popped out of their hiding spaces. Reynolds whipped his head around wildly, quivering in absolute fear at the hooded figures towering over him. Connor wiped the last of Reynold's blood from his possessions.

"What is this treachery? You said you were going to let me g-"

"You have some debts to pay, do you not? Take him away." Connor turned and strolled onto the street as the Assassins dragged James Reynolds kicking and screaming towards a darker alley where several disgruntled veterans lay in wait.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, mentor?" The assassin asked him. "I mean, we are about to break into a Founding Father's home… and not just any… the writer of our independence himself."

"I am as convicted as I was when I requested that my fellow assassins devise a plan for infiltrating his dwellings. Clear your unease, McCarthy, for after all you are not doing the break-in. I just need to get an accurate gauge of the estates' premises for when I return later in the night. Just play the part I assigned to you."

"Alright, but I feel ridiculous."

"As do I." Connor had swapped the Assassin robes for an inconspicuous suit, the clothing of the white men. The clothing felt unnatural on him, itching and heavy. "You practiced your part, right?"

"Um, yes. I did, mentor."

He looked back at the sprawling plantation around the manor, fields filled with working slaves and their crude dwellings. A man who believed in liberty and justice for all, yet he still kept those ideals out of the reach for others. With each passing day, he felt more and more that perhaps they were all the same. Sighing once, he knocked on the door.

A tall woman in a light blue dress, red-haired and slim answered the door. She looked youthful still, impossible to be the wife of Jefferson, but in her angled face the mark of child-borne weariness was starting to set in.

"We weren't expecting visitors at this day of the month." She was about to close the door on them when Fillian chimed in, throwing an accent into his voice. He had put in powder that dyed his blonde hair black this morning.

"Greetings, signora. My name is Alfeo Auditore da Firenze. I am a traveling scholar of the arts from beautiful Italia. I seek an audience with Thomas Jefferson, for I hear that he is the most enlightened on this continent." Connor's heart sunk. An unconvincing performance that would not have even fooled a child. He was sure that the woman had rolled her eyes at the sight.

"And what of him, the Indian? I do not think that my father would be too comfortable harboring a mud-caked forest-dweller in his home, despite the positive words he often gives regarding them."

"He is a noble savage, my companion! Behold! Whereupon other savages would be content to wallowing around like specks of dust gathering berries and hunting bunnies, he has realized the folly of their resistance to our God-granted superiority and has successfully assimilated into our world! I would like to present him as a prize to Signore Jefferson."

Once he found out who had planned this, it would be the last time that Connor authorize him or her to plan anything, Connor pledged.

"Very well, I will let you have a brief audience with my father. He is out now, inspecting the fields but I will host you until he returns."

Fillian moved towards the door, but she held out her arm, blocking him. His mouth dropped open in indignant surprise.

"You are as much an Italian scholar as I am the President. You'd be nothing more than a waste of father's time. But a fully Americanized savage… this is something he would like to see."

Connor shrugged at McCarthy, a slight gesture of sympathy, as he followed Jefferson's daughter into the house. Behind him, two of the black slaves were forcefully escorting the protesting McCarthy off the premises.

* * *

"This is an impressive estate." Connor commented as he looked over the shelves of books next to the fireplace. He heard the sound of children echoing somewhere in the wings. "The manor possesses a unique design to it, evoking both the old European world and the new world spirit of America simultaneously."

"My father would be pleased to hear that. He designed the plantation himself, built it when he was just a few years my senior. I have even heard visitors remark that it puts Washington and Mt. Vernon to shame."

"You seem proud of your father. From the way you talk of him, the two of you must be closely bound…"

"Perceptive, aren't you? Yes, since my mother passed and many of my siblings too, the two of us became near inseparable. He took me with him to Paris, when he served as the Foreign Minister. Enrolled me in a Parisian school, school by the finest in the finest educational tenets and arts. The two of us even became involved in the social scene. I met King Louis himself, did you know, all before that dreadful uprising. Oh, father does extoll the virtues and benefit of revolution, but I can't help but feel distressed that many whom I met during our time there must have become guests of the guillotine since we left. What of your father, sir? I wonder often what it must be like, to have a native upbringing."

"I was raised by the Mohawks, but it was just my mother who raised me. Our time together was brief, but I miss her nonetheless. I was not a pure-blood, but they treated me like one regardless. There, amongst them was where I felt that I truly belonged, the same which I cannot say for your society, even if I speak your language and wear your clothing and eat your foods. As for my father… I never knew him. Not really, even though I thought I did, thoughts formed from the words my mother wrote of him and from the brief time I spent with him when I found him as an adult. Only after I had read the lone inheritance he left for me, the account he kept of his life, I realized I had known nothing about the man aside from the brash judging the confused, angered youth had made. By then, it was too late to tell him that I was sorry about everything. Not a day goes by that I wish things could have been different. That we could have set aside the quarrel that divided us from the day we crossed eyes and compromised to find the best that walked in both of us. To set apart our losses and bitterness, to let go of our past so that we could at last see the present. That we would one day carve a better future from tomorrow. But destiny is a harsh mistress, and to this day, the dreams still torment me."

"It sounds like there was real bad blood between you and your father."

"You have no idea... all the fortunate for you."

"And yet you sound so detached about all this tragedy that you have been through."

"My people have a different way of dealing with our emotions in contrast to your society… it seems that so few of you are capable of understanding that."

There was a punctuated, uncomfortable subject. Like a flash of lightning, Jefferson's daughter changed the subject of conversation.

"I do not believe that the joker with you had given proper introductions. My name is Martha, although father always did have his silly nicknames for me."

"You can call me Connor, but my name is Ratonhnhaké:ton."

The lady tried to pronounce it, to little success.

"Oh dear, I am very embarrassed. I hope that I did not offend you."

To his mild amusement, Connor replied. "It is alright, most do not even try to pronounce it. Even one of my closest friends never bothered to learn how."

"You certainly are an interesting, well-educated fellow. Perhaps if more of your kind were like you, these frontier conflicts could be easier resolved. Tell me Connor, are you from around these parts? To see an Indian in Virginia is a very rare experience…"

"Not from around here, no. I live up north, in a small but thriving town named Davenport in Massachusetts. I would make the case that it is a patch of land as brilliant as your father's estate, in its own way. Perhaps he would one day care to visit it. From what I know of your father, it appeals to his firmest beliefs about what the country stands for."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the door to the room creaking open. Heavy-set steps carried the lofty red-haired unimpressively dressed Thomas Jefferson into the study. He shut the door behind him, and turned to look at Connor. Connor's mind flashed back to memories of a dream he had years ago… he had been camping out for the night, settling for rest as he warmed by the embers of the flame. But there had been an unexpected visitor from his days as a Revolutionary carrying one of the powerful precursor artifacts his mentor and father told him about. In that dream, Connor had found himself working closely with those whom he had only exchanged passing glances with in reality, Jefferson amongst them. It was uncanny, how closely Jefferson resembled the man that Connor remembered from the Apple-induced dream with some alterations given the passage of time and the weight of one's burdens.

"Are you certain that you have not mistaken me for someone else? I have little love given to or gained from the banks and traders of New England, or the Federalists whom they support. I am intrigued, to see how a town in the heart of Federalist country can be anything but another impediment to my idea of the Republican experiment."

Martha Jefferson Randolph prepared to introduce Connor, but Jefferson signaled to her that there was no need. "Sally told me as I walked back to the manor that I should expect visitors. And Samuel and Philip were out there, dragging a strange little man out kicking and screaming. Why don't you fetch the two of us some refreshments while we make of ourselves acquaintances?" Jefferson's daughter nodded, and quickly exited from seat to door, leaving the Founding Father and the Assassin alone.

"Hello. Connor, was it?"

"Yes."

There was an air of uncomfortable silence in the room. Connor no longer felt comfortable amongst any of the politicians and rabble rousers who had been the Founding Fathers, even those who had almost… just almost had been his friends like Samuel Adams. He saw their hypocrisies, the reversals of their beliefs as circumstances and benefits changed. Charmed with larger than life impressions, all while reaching behind the back with a knife at ready. And as for Jefferson, it was clear that the man was none at all comfortable with having a Native walking in his home, even when Connor had dressed himself in their clothing to appear better presentable.

"I think that you would be pleasantly surprised by the Homestead, Mr. Jefferson. We separate ourselves from political alignment… our only goal is to create a thriving, happy commune and set an example for the rest of this growing country to follow. A path free of tyranny and political backbiting, the breathing embodiment of freedom and equality. Equality and freedom for all, Mr. Jefferson." He hoped that the last words drove into Jefferson like a burning dagger, to give the slave owner something to think about.

"You speak convincing words, boy, but words are the easiest to wrap up in fancy paper, to twist into cold-hearted lies. What concrete evidence do you have of this so-called utopian homestead? What do you have to show to prove that you are simply not relaying the words of a manipulating New England merchant king?"

"There is little I can show or say at this present moment, Mr. Jefferson, that will do the township justice until you come visit and see what we have built with your own eyes. There is no notion of a Federalist or Republican or Loyalist faction in Davenport, no barriers built by nationality or the color skin, just the singular ideal of the American people. And beyond that, a notion too great for even a man like you to judge."

"You pique my curiosity. Tell me, is how large is this town of yours? Davenport, was it called?"

"Not too large. There are new faces moving in and building houses of their own, but we are nowhere close to becoming a city like Boston. Some of our residents still live in cabins deep in the far woods."

"Hmm… ah, thank you Martha." His daughter had returned, putting a glass and a bottle in his hands. He poured a pale amber yellow liquid into the glass, taking a small sip. He poured a glass for Connor, but the native turned it down. "A pity that you do not partake in the consumption of fine spirits. The finest, Connor, imported directly from France. But I am getting ahead of myself here… your home, this Davenport, it shines of promise. It has become rare to find something of a small, slow-growing scale in New England, with the people determined to recreate Europe's world, to become as corrupt as Europe. But as much as I wish to see it myself, I shall take my leisure in doing so. It has been long since I was at peace at Monticello, free from the humdrum of city life." Jefferson spoke with eloquent wording, but with a clumsier, less elegant delivery.

"Jefferson, as much as I would enjoy discussing the benefits and downsides of cities in America, I have a more pressing issue I seek to discuss. One which I and my associates race against the grains of sand to remedy…."

"Disappointing. There was so much I wished to ask you. I have never truly had the opportunity to speak with one of your kind. But I am a gentlemen, and gentlemen are nothing but rude hosts. Then talk what you have come here for, if you must."

* * *

"Absolutely not."

"But these letters, they would effectively undermine whatever remained of Hamilton's standing with the people, Jefferson. Perhaps go as far as to topple the presidency itself. Why are you clinging to them like this, keeping them your private correspondence?" Connor asked.

"Expose Hamilton's surreptitious love affair? I have wished for nothing else but something to hang the arrogant mongrel with, but I had never the benefit of piercing ammunition until these letters came about. But Hamilton is as strong as I, with just as many secret friends and networks… what is to say that he does not ruin me with a rebuttal, an expose of my own personal matters?" Jefferson looked shiftily towards the blacks milling about their business in the house and the fields outside, and Connor confusedly tried to make sense of what the man meant by his "personal matters."

The two of them were standing now, gazing over the Monticello estate.

"I have worked hard for the American people, sacrificed much for them. Yet, what good can I do the people if Hamilton ruins me? No voting man would wish to elect a man to represent them, if they knew the exact nature of my own secrets. There would be nothing but the personal satisfaction of knowing that I brought him down with me."

"We can protect you from Hamilton, Mr. Jefferson." Connor promised the Founding Father. "He is not the only man in the colonies with a network of friends and information."

The Founding Father stared deeply in thought at the Assassin. "I will need some more time to think about this, Connor. Why don't you retire for the moment and see the rest of the estate? I can have Sally show you every length and width of Monticello."

"No thanks, but I will need some time to think about what we have discussed here today as well. I will be back in a few days for your response, Jefferson."

"It will be my pleasure to host our next meeting. I will be sure to make proper preparations next time. Martha and I can pose quite the challenge for any budding intellectuals who seek a debate. You do seem like an interesting man who would be quite the sort to discuss matters such as philosophy with when you are no longer bound by impatience as you are now. Until then, Connor." The Founding Father offered Connor a handshake. Reluctantly, Connor shook it. The native blood of his mother that flowed within him ensured that he would never become completely accustomed towards the strangeness that they insisted of with their customs.

"Well, McCarthy, that was a disappointing batch of results. I am no closer to obtaining those papers than I was this morning. Ready our horses, we will be finding a place to settle down for th-" Connor's mouth hung as he saw the grisly sight in front of him. His companion Assassin's body hung at the end of a brown tree, his body covered in blood and fallen leaves. His neck had been twisted into an unnatural angle, limbs mangled and body pierced multiple times. "-night?"

Connor hurried over to the corpse, hoping that perhaps he wasn't too late, that he could still save a fellow Assassin's life. But that was nothing but wistful thinking. The assassin was cold as cobblestone. A small piece of parchment hung by dagger out of the treebark. Ignoring it for the moment being, Connor gazed over his dead brother-in-arms. He had barely known the man, and he had no idea what the right words to say were. But he promised both himself and the fallen warrior that he would deliver retribution to whoever had stolen his life from the earth.

He ripped the dagger out from the tree, let the parchment flutter into his grasp. He turned the paper over and read what had been written.

_Friendly warning – ride back to the Homestead this night if you do not wish for us to do you what we did to this poor interloper. It is not something that I wish to personally bequeath upon you, Connor, but you are forcing our hand. Do not return to Monticello, and do not speak of Thomas Jefferson or Alexander Hamilton again. We know where the Homestead is, Connor, and we shall keep our eyes peeled at all corners. We will leave your family and friends alone... unless you stay in Virginia. Then you shall leave me no choice.  
_

_Patrice Deschain_

Connor looked down at McCarthy's corpse. He looked back at Monticello in the distance. He thought of Thomas Jefferson and his daughter, of her children and of the family slaves. His thoughts turned to the Templars, that they knew that Jefferson had acquired incriminating evidence against their Grand Master that could very well foil their schemes. It seemed that they would be willing to do anything to recover their documents. Anything…

Time to find a shovel.

And a tomahawk.


End file.
